Our grandfather was unable to speak to us as other people did. He'd suffered from throat cancer, and his voice box was surgically removed as part of his treatment. So when he wanted to communicate to us, he'd arch his eyes expressively and wave his hands about. Bring me a spoon for my soup! Carry this letter to the mailbox! His face was intelligent, and he wore the expression of the boss of an office, but there was a hint of elation behind it, and sometimes wistfulness. We were noisy and clumsy around his belongings, but he never looked annoyed. He just had to wag his finger, teasing, and we calmed down.

He couldn't speak, and we didn't hear anything of his history, or how things worked when he was a kid. We didn't hear of his travels. We never heard him speak our names. But we didn't miss this. When he stood next to us, we felt the story of who he was. In his silent presence, we felt his love.

Remembering Grandpa on St. Valentine's Day ....