I placed my hand gently on her softly woven cardigan, which was of a fresh pink color reminding me of the roses we just picked this morning. She was very careful about picking flowers, unlike the several bandages that ended up on my fingers. She turned her head to face me, and managed to put a warm smile on her face.

“Yes, dear?” She whispered with a faint groan. I caressed her face with my hand; my bandages rubbing her cheek softly.

“I thought you might want to have some lunch now, grandma.” She tightened the grasp of my hand against her face and gently pulled it over her lips. With a soft kiss, she began to speak.

“Thank you, but I thought I’d share a special story with you. Our flower picking this morning sparked a memory that I’ve always held close to my heart. It’s about your grandfather.” Her melancholy eyes took a glance over by the flowers, expressing a mixture of sorrow, yet hope. When she squinted her eyes at the sight, her rosy cheekbones were visible and her mouth turned into an upward grin; she enjoyed the view. “Come sit,” she said, patting down on the bed next to where her legs were stretched out.

As I sat down on her oceanic blue comforter with sandy colored sheets slipping out under it, my grandmother had propped herself up, sitting against the bed’s headboard. “Grandma, its okay, just make yourself comfortable.” I hated seeing her get out of the way to make others feel better, when she so greatly deserved to be comfortable in her own bed.

“Darling, when you sit next to me, I feel comfortable,” she responded, assuring. “Now, let me tell you this story.” Her eyes gazed out in the distance, finding the right words to start, and finding the right memory, skipping through the scrapbook she stowed away in her head. “At the time I was working the fields with my family, and barely making enough as a dime, to get by. There were long, required hours, set with strict rules and a scorching sun; some of the worst “benefits” of a job.”

I smiled, and patted her hand in accordance to her humor. “I was one of 10 children, so as you may assume, getting food on the table was like going through a minefield,” she continued. “Anyways, so one morning, my father tells me that there will be a young man coming up to my area and assisting me on a difficult task I was assigned. So I waited until midday, and a tall boy with hair combed over to one side, approached me. He had a humorous side to him, walking with one foot stretched out in front of the other, giving me a slight wave of the hand as he came closer. We worked side by side that day, sharing a few laughs along the job. He was very polite and such a gentleman.” She nodded her head, and reached over to pull a flower out of the vase. I could see the tears filling up in the crease of her eye, but she quickly hid herself behind a single pink rose. With a mighty gulp of air, she inhaled the tender and sweet smell of the flushed pink petals. They brought her back under the blazing sun; they brought her back to that day in the fields with my grandfather.

“It’s ok.” I whispered, choking back my own tears of remembrance of my grandpa. I enveloped my arms around her waist, which I did as a child, and held her close. My tears stifled against her body, as she gently stroked my head. I was thankful for her silence, and I was thankful for her story. I was thankful for the warmth my grandmother illuminated by just the touch of a hand.