November 10, 2007
He stood hunched over the azaleas, shaping the bushes with ease despite the cold. Melinda Busher Thompson burrowed her gloved hands deeper into the front pockets of her Berber coat as she watched him. Her exposed skin stung with the raw damp of the November day— another reason for her desire to leave western NewYork.
Yet Grandpa Jack moved through his garden as though he was still forty, like her, and not eighty seven.
As if Grammy was still here. "Hey, Grandpa." Her all weather moccasins squished over the scattered dead leaves Grandpa Jack had laid down for insulation.
"Hey, yourself, kiddo!" Pleasure lit up Jack Busher's face. Melinda caught the sparkle in his violet blue eyes before he enfolded her in one of his famous bear hugs.
Grandpa Jack might be thinner than he'd been when she was a child, but his embrace still held all the love in the world for her. She breathed in his scent—fall morning rain mixed with soap and old fashioned ...
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