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The Way He Stands

I was eating lentils at my grandparents house the other day. My grandma was searching through her health books for a new cure for her bronchitis and my grandpa was sorting vitamins into his weekly vitamin box.

At a pause in my grandma's searching she turned to my grandpa and asked him something in Spanish. My grandpa, setting down his pills, rested one hand on the kitchen counter, the other he put in the pocket of his army-green cargo pants. He crossed one leg and answered my grandma in a matter-of-fact tone.

I don't know what they said, but I'm certain that my grandpa was knowledgeable about whatever question he was answering. I could tell by the way he stood. Normally he wobbles around the house, stooped, eyes on the next place his foot will land. The kitchen is my grandma's domain, and he is the humble servant. But everything changed at that moment. I saw the traces of a once strong, certain, and capable man. He is that same man still.

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