Occasionally, he would look out his cracked bedroom window to see the old oak tree in his backyard. He would remember climbing that tree, as his short, wrinkled grandfather called up in that sickly sweet tone of his "Come on now, get out of that tree!" The boy would climb only higher, not heeding his crackly cries, and maybe throw an acorn at his head, sending the old man scurrying back to the safety of the inside. He would laugh from the tree, loud enough for the fleeing elder to hear. He remembered those agonizing talks with his grandfather about how school was going and how he was feeling and what he liked to do for fun, his grandfather 's face always alight with a wide grin the whole while. He could also recall how he enjoyed terrorizing that old coot, throwing a stone from a corner of the house or a witty quip about his checkered suspenders that were too large and his stained white shirt that gripped his round belly enthusiastically. His mother, a tall woman with pointed facial features, giving her the appearance of a hawk looking for its prey, had always loved his grandfather dearly. She always insisted upon his frequent visits, even though he only ever brought candy and teeth-rotting treats. So of course, the day that she had come and sat the boy down in the kitchen to tell him that his grandfather had died trying to slide down the banister at his graying old house, she had dissolved into noisy, wet tears for twenty or so minutes. The boy, at the time, recalled his
