The Bracelet
    
You gave me the bracelet when I was still in the hospital, sleeping peacefully in a white bassinet. You slipped it on my tiny wrist, and when the nurse came to take it away (a safety hazard, she said), I gripped it with my round little fingers.
    
When I was a little older, you would come over in the afternoons to play with me. We played House (I was the mommy, you were the baby), Castle (I was the princess, you were the prince), and Rodeo (I was the rider, you were the horse).
    
One day you appeared in the driveway outside my house and you told me we had an errand to run together. We climbed into your red Honda and we drove to the movie theater. You insisted that we see a funny movie, because you loved to laugh.
    
When I was ten, you stopped coming. Instead I went to see you every week at Williams County Hospital. You were frail, with tubes coming out of you everywhere. It was hard for you to sit up, so I raised the bed. You liked that, so I did it again. We made fun of your hospital gown and we shared a box of cookies that you weren’t supposed to have.
    
On a dreary January day, I came into your hospital room. I had brought some playing cards, in case you wanted to play War or Gin Rummy with me. Just as I was getting ready to leave, you brought out a blue box. Inside was a small silver bracelet, just the right size for my slim wrist. The outside was engraved with delicate silver roses, intertwining like hugging arms. “For my favorite  little girl,” you said. “I bought it for you the day you were born. You liked it so much you didn’t want to take it off. But I kept it safe for you until now.” I slipped it on and kissed you goodbye.
    
It wasn’t until a few days later that I noticed the inscription on the inside of the bracelet: To remember me by. Love, Grandpa.