#120

My grandparents never kissed each other. They never held hands, never hugged. But every morning, without fail, my grandmother, her hair pulled into a loose, silvery white bun, would make 4 pieces of buttered toast between the two of them, a cup of weak tea for herself, a cup of black, thick coffee for him.
She lived in the house he built even after he was gone, after all the kids had moved away, after her knees shook too much to climb the simple oak staircase. The flowers at his grave came up bountifully each year, fertilized by old coffee grounds made precisely for that purpose. My baby niece received a knitted sweater from her grandma and grandpa, and I hope to one day know what it was they held, if not each other.