“I’m not a baby, Grandpa,” he says.
He held my hand the entire way across that gymnasium.
He held it tight. His small hand in my old, spotted, arthritic one.
He didn’t let go.
The room was full.
Two hundred men and boys. Fathers in tailored suits. Navy and charcoal and gray. Silk ties. Shiny
watches. Sons in their navy blazers, sitting up straight, the way their mothers had told them to.
There was a buffet along the side wall. Scrambled eggs and bacon and fruit and stacks of pancakes. Pitchers of orange juice.
A string quartet was playing in the corner. Students from the upper school orchestra.
The volume in the room dropped to an immediate halt.
It happened like a wave. The tables closest to the door went quiet first. Then the ones behind them. Then the whole room.
Two hundred faces turned and looked at us.
