Through the leaves
I loved the lattice print it could leave on the body of anyone who lost track of time. The lawn chairs were specially crafted by my Grandpa. It seemed like half his day was spent repairing, tightening, and cleaning the straps of nylon and plastic that decorated the metal frame. Each chair was slightly different. Only Grandpa could tell which visitor sat in which chair by the print it left across the bottom of their thighs and the tops of their shoulder blades. He named each chair after parts of a newspaper. We were the only ones that knew that Grandpa couldn’t read well. However, bringing Grandpa a small-town newspaper was the only way to sit in one of his beloved lawn chairs. When people would leave, he would say a section of the newspaper out loud followed by a crisp snap of a newspaper he pretended to read. The visitors would assume he was enjoying the freedom of the press. We knew grandpa was finding joy in noticing the marks from the chairs. If the visitors paused or attempted to talk to him he would say something like, “Nothing like a good obituary to make you appreciate life.”
