Marty G

We got a call in the evening. Grandma picked up. I was playing guitar in the living room and from where she was down the hall I could hardly hear what she was saying. However, it didn't take long for me to detect a distinct vibe change upon catching her say a full-bodied "No!" of disbelief ("No! Well I never!"). The tone was so new that I had to stop playing. It was startling as it would've been if she had said the F word (I don't believe in her 97 years has she has even thought to say the F word).

Turns out it was Marty Griffin on the line, one of Grandpa's oldest friends. It had been ages since he'd last called--Grandma had to inform him of Grandpa's death in 2015, which she did like a champ, saying, "Well, that's the way it goes."

She was no longer disoriented. She knew what to ask and remembered where Marty lived and with whom and spoke fluidly about all of it. After the call she even looked different. There was a new warmth in her eyes that reflected revived awareness of the duration and development of events in time, which reminded me of the sun-swallowing warmth of a lake in late summer.

After the call we decided to look through file box G of the wall of file boxes in Grandpa's study. This alphabetically organized archive keeps the correspondence and tangential information of quite possibly everyone Grandpa had spoken to on a semi-regular basis. In total the boxes make a wall-sized palette of varying Army greens.

Lo and behold there was Marty G's file, the thickest one of the Gs by far (sorry to the lesser Gs out there), with letters copied and scanned and photo scraps and old addresses and flurries of newspaper clippings. The entire file I am sure contains a seamless, years-long string of correspondence between the two friends.

"Marty fucking Griffin?! How the fuck are you?"