No claim to heroism.
Just that.
A little girl was crying.
So he went back.
The next morning, Grandpa asked me to take him to Pearl Harbor again.
We stood beside the water.
He carried Grandma’s photograph.
And this time, one of Ruth’s grandsons came with us.
His name was David.
He was seventy-two.
Older than I was.
He and Grandpa stood together without speaking for a long time.
Finally Grandpa looked at Grandma’s picture.
“I should’ve brought Evelyn.”
“You couldn’t,” I said gently.
“I know.”
He smiled.
“She would’ve liked this family.”
David laughed.
“They would’ve liked her.”
Grandpa looked toward the harbor.
Then he said something I will never forget.
“I spent eighty years thinking that day was about the people we lost.”
His voice shook.
“I never thought about somebody I didn’t.”
On our final evening, the hotel manager came to our room.
