Grandma's eyes, though ninety-four, are suddenly clear and sharp as they try to focus on something about him, anything, some detail to spark a little small talk, to take her away from her romance novel (God, how many more will there be?) for a few minutes. She is like a bird peering down at the ground for some morsel, and she is good at finding it. With the practice of her many years, she wastes no time (she does enough of that already) in drawing the young man out; she hangs on, almost fiercely, to his presence. Can she entice him with some candy or peanuts? What did he do today? Anything to open him up.

Her days are long and slow. The hours eventually do go by, but there is much talking to herself, talking to her dead husband, prayers. There is too much reading and too much bad TV. The aches and pains she can put up with, but the loneliness always seems to be gnawing at her, at all hours. She spends most of her time in a world of her own. It isn't easy talking with the young people; her memories are like old pictures stuck in an album. They are interesting to look at once in a while, and then put away. And she doesn't know enough about their lives to feel like she's involved.

She just hopes that some day soon, the Good Lord willing, she will be with her Arthur again. She hates feeling old and in the way, which she does, despite kindly reassurances from the younger people.

Grandma's eyes soften, and often get teary, as she speaks to the young man about her past. There is so much in those years that even she has forgotten most of it. She has seen everything from the car to the computer, world wars and men on the moon, but, invariably, it all comes back to Arthur. For she saw it all with him. Married sixty-three years. They have been a painfully lonely ten years since he died. All she can do is shake her head and bite her lip.

The young man, not knowing what else to say, offers to get her a cup of tea, and Grandma quickly puts a smile on her face and nods her head.