Grandpa begins, spewing out the same rhetoric he does every time the three of us are together. His hands are stained from years tending to the oils; candlewax hangs like dew from the hairs on his arms. ‘Today is a great day, a momentous day.’ He looks straight at me. ‘Charlie, lad, it is a day you will never forget.’
You’ve been here for about ten minutes, maybe a little longer but not much. When you first got here you watched me write, sitting on one of the piles of books that rests against my living room wall, keeping quiet, not wanting to disturb me. But I knew you were there. Staying in the background isn’t your style.