My memories of you are wires crossed with the stories I’ve so often heard. Dates and certain traits are now blurred and faded. I can’t remember your voice. It’s been years since I could, but I remember how it rumbled.
I do remember your arms—stalwart and freckled so deeply they looked tanned—the same arms that gave blood in the name of each of your grandchildren. Your arms were my first charitable act.
When I would wake at four and stumble sleepily into the living room to find you watching the news on mute in that old battered recliner, your arms were my rocking chair.
When you marshaled your parade of capped grandchildren across the street to the park that will forever be yours, your arms were a force of nature, sending multiple swings soaring into the air in a complex rhythm only you could comprehend.
I remember your chest—barrel-shaped and strong—creating a whistle more powerful than I could fathom. I still think of you each time I manage to carry a tune.
I remember your hands picking me up and dusting me off when I jumped too soon. The selfsame hands that gathered up all the caps we strew carelessly in the grass and mulch balancing them one by one atop your head when the sun was setting and it was time to leave.
I can remember that lovely rumble leading one final rendition of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as you marched us safely home.