“Repeat what we just agreed to.”
He let out a disgruntled sigh. “I, Harold Sinclair, do solemnly swear that I’ve agreed to get rid of all my furniture, except my dresser, the leather chair in my bedroom, and the bench on the patio.”
“And . . . ?” I prompted.
Pops rolled his eyes. “And I will not guilt my granddaughter into making me think I’ve forgotten this simply because I love that couch.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
The video cut off, and I sent him a smug grin.
“Rude,” he muttered. “Who raised you?”
“You.”
Gavin waited for my nod, then smacked a green Post-it on the back of the couch. Pops glared at that too. “Perfectly good couch.”
“So is mine,” I reminded him. “It’s bigger than yours and doesn’t have springs that poke you in the ass if you sit wrong.”
He harrumphed. “Just keeps you from getting too comfortable. Kids these days watch too much TV anyway, so I think it’s a good thing.”
Gavin moved behind Pops and fiddled with the edge of his shirt collar. No matter the weather, no matter the occasion, my grandfather always wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and a bow tie, with a white undershirt beneath that was visible through the top layer. Today it was a light-blue shirt and a navy tie with white polka dots.
“Where’d you get this one?” Gavin asked, gently touching the bow tie.
“New York City,” he answered. “I was twenty years old and wanted something nice for my first day on the job in the county clerk’s office. Your grandma, God rest her soul, went into the city with me, eventhough she hated it, and we picked out this and about five others.” He winked. “Best ties in the world.”
“How many do you have in total?”
“Not sure.”
“Too many,” I answered. “But we won’t donate those, I promise.”
Pops motioned for one on the stack sitting on his dresser. Gavin picked up a red one with white pinstripes and held it out.
“No, you,” Pops said, tapping the side of Gavin’s neck. “Your turn, little bug.”
His eyes widened. “Really? You’ll teach me?”
“We’ll have more time together now, won’t we?”
While Pops drew Gavin closer and patiently walked him through the steps of how to tie a bow tie, I watched them from the corner of my eye as I folded a few of his favorite blankets, crocheted by my grandmother shortly after they’d gotten married. No matter the season, the blankets that covered his bed were hers—one in shades of red and maroon and pink. The other, green and white and orange.
I ran my hand over the woven strands and closed the box, slid the packing tape over the top, and then marked the contents with a Sharpie.
Gavin ran over and tipped up his chin. “Look!”
It was lopsided and far too loose. I touched the tip of his nose. “Perfect.”
He ran into the bathroom to check his reflection, and Pops stood from his chair with a small groan. It was getting harder for him to get around, and he’d already fallen twice. The fact that he’d only ended up with bruises was a miracle, and the final straw in convincing him to move in with us.
“You sure about this, bug?”
I set the box of blankets on top of the others in the corner. “What do you think?”
He grimaced. “I just feel bad. I’ve always ... I’ve always been able to take care of you. Feels wrong that you have to take care of me now.”