The Last Question He Asked

My grandfather was a man of great warmth. He could fill a quiet room with his laughter. When I was young, I believed he was the strongest person in the world.

After my grandmother passed, it was just the two of us. We shared countless days and stories. As he grew older, a quiet fear settled in me, a dread of the silence his absence would bring.

He was ninety-two when he grew ill. Watching him grow frail was the most difficult thing I have ever done. One afternoon, he looked slowly around his sunlit room and murmured, ‘I built all this.’ The words felt like they came from a place deep inside him, which was unexpected from a man who never spoke of such things.

He then shared his fondest memory of our time together and asked me for mine.

The question caught me completely off guard. My mind went blank, even though we had shared so many happy times. I wanted to say something perfect, like the way he whistled while fixing his old car.

But in that moment, the only thing I could think of was a silly argument he once had with a man down the street about a tree branch hanging over the fence.