If I could take something small from her sewing room?” I ask my grandmother quietly. A little keepsake, a lucky charm, perhaps.

I’m sitting on her sofa—the one where she takes her afternoon naps, where she reads the newspaper and the gossip magazines. It’s the spot from where she can keep an eye out for Grandpa’s brother, her neighbor and fellow widower. If he’s awake yet, so she can bring him a bowl of fresh soup through the hedge.

(…)

A few lessons later, I find him again, sitting on a bench at the playground, his eyes wide as he gazes up at a mural of colorful geometric shapes. I sit beside him, and he turns to me, asking in that soft voice of wonder, “Miss, do you like this?”

“Very much,” I answer, and he whispers back, “Me too.”

I look at his face, full of curiosity and awe, and I see it—this little budding mathematician, little engineer, already noticing patterns in the world around him.

(…)

At the funeral, I read the letter aloud. I talk about the Chokotoffs and the way Grandpa used to hide chocolates in the nurses’ coat pockets as a surprise.

Especially the ones who were on a diet but still had a soft spot for chocolate. He found so much joy in that. Oh yes … His playful spirit was really contagious.

(…)