This could all be untrue:
My grandfather was never seen without a pipe between his teeth.
My grandfather wore a shirt and tie whenever he didn’t wear pajamas.
My grandfather had a fire in the fireplace every afternoon, winter or summer, fall or spring.
My grandfather had a voice like rocks tumbled in a drum.
The skin on my grandfather’s hands felt like newspaper to a small, nervous girl.
Solid Gold was my grandfather’s favorite television show.
If my grandmother forgot to put a stack of brown bread on the dinner table, my grandfather would get it himself.
My grandfather yelled when he felt someone had done something wrong. Sometimes he would listen, later.
My grandfather recited poetry after we had all finished eating. Not every night.
My grandfather painted portraits of people that exceeded the paint on the canvas.
My grandfather chose a dark salmon color for the walls of his studio.
My grandfather had regrets. I don’t know what they were.
The last time I saw my grandfather he couldn’t speak, but he could smile.
My grandfather’s eyes were blue.
My grandfather’s tie pin: a pearly arrow head, found in the fields behind his house.