It was ten in the morning. I was sitting at the dining room table eating soup, after my morning run, when I heard a slight noise in the kitchen -- much too quiet to be Mom and Leslie coming home. I found a pile of men’s shirt laid over a chair, and the back door ajar: definite signs of Grandpa. Probably he had gone out to get another load from the car. Sure enough, here he came with another bag of oranges and things. I greeted him and thanked him for the things he was unloading. “Don’t say thank you, again, I’ll have a heart attack,” he said, and headed back out the door. Do you need any help? I asked. “Definitely not.” Are you leaving? I asked. “I never leave, I’m always here,” He said, shutting the door. I really wasn’t sure if that meant he would be back or not. Apparently it did. He came back with some paper napkins and a print-out of an email Mom had sent Grandma in 1999, told me to try not to work too hard, and that I was not to eat all of the oranges before my mother got home. He said he presumed Mom was out helping the Pope of the Church, and expressed his shock that Matilda was singing illegally with the wrong group yet again. And, declining all invitations to sit, eat, or stay, he was off.
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