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Show CHAPTER FOURTEEN Now my mornings across the street were divided between Grandmother and Grandfather, she sitting in the dark living room or the shadowy porch, rocking and remembering, he lying still and quiet but every day stronger. He began to tease me again, gentle jokes that never hurt. The morning he asked me to find his own checker board and pieces I knew that he was really getting better. We played and laughed, both accusing the other of cheating, he winning all the games. "Well," he said as he leaned back against the pillows. "Haven't lost my touch, have I? Guess you and that soldier friend aren't such experts after all." I hadn't asked Grandmother about Paul's medal. She seemed more alive since Grandfather had come home and I didn't want to do anything to remind her of Uncle Paul. She was not cheerful, but she wept less and left the living room with its shrouded pictures for the light and heat of the kitchen. She cooked a lot, more that he could or should eat and so she always sent me home with pots and loaves, food that steamed as I carried it home to our kitchen. It was more than we could eat either, so Father often took it to St. John's with him. The men loved it. Grandmother never knew. The cooking gave her something to do, something that brought her for a short time away from the old days she was reliving constantly. Her food kept us alive during those weeks of summer. Mother was too busy to cook more than an occasional pot of soup. Soon after Grandfather came home, Sister Francine, head of St. John's, had sent a note, byway of Father, asking Mother to give a recital for the men. She said that everyone at the hospital |