My great-grandfather was the kind of man who always seemed unshakable.

He had lived through a world war, raised four kids of his own after his wife passed, and ran

a small town diner until arthritis stole his grip.

He was a figure of quiet strength with the eyes of someone who'd seen the world and survived.

Growing up, I knew he'd served as a nurse during the war, but that was about all I knew.

Most of his stories gathered dust in his memories, just like the medals that stood on the living room shelf. He'd sometimes

joke about trading cigarettes for coffee while patching up cowardly soldiers who shot themselves

in the foot, but there was a line he would never cross. He always kept the heavy memories

locked out of sight.

It was late, past midnight, and the house was quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator

in the kitchen, accompanied by a grandfather clock.

Great Grandpa and I sat at the table, the dim yellow light above us casting long shadows across his worn,

weathered face.

He poured himself a whiskey, the one indulgence that remained, and handed me a Coke,

a gesture that made me feel much older than I was.

He was quiet at first, staring into his glass like it held something he'd been

trying to figure out. Then, without looking up at me, he spoke. You ever wonder why something

stick with you, boy, he asked with a low and steady voice.

I blinked and adjusted my posture, caught off guard. What do you mean? He took a sip from his

glass and set it back down carefully, his hand lingering on it. The war.

I've seen a lot of things.

Fixed a lot of people up.

...