It was a fall morning. Sunset-colored leaves scattered my great grandparents’ driveway, each one coated with a thin layer of frost. Inside their house, Pop lied on the recliner, his body simply composed of disintegrating skin drooped over frail bones. I held my breath and sat down next to him.

“Hi, Margaret,” he said, his voice brittle.

“Hi,” I managed to say, too afraid to tell him that I was Claire. Half of Pop’s skin was covered with dark purple bruises; the other half was either wrapped in bandages from the months of dialysis or scarred with crevices and age spots. When I looked into his eyes, however, my heart dropped. They were colored pale blue, drained like a faded photograph and tainted with months of lost sleep, of lying awake at night and letting his anxious thoughts stir.

I picked up his crumbling hand and cradled it in mine, feeling patches of softness hidden underneath wrinkling heartlines. Outside the window, the tarnished, bare branches of a maple tree swayed with the wind. A chilled breeze carried the last fiery red leaf until it fell onto the sidewalk, and I gently squeezed Pop’s hand.