My brother, who borrowed his opinions from whoever had spoken last, made jokes about Grandpa being made of plywood and silence.
But I never thought he was empty.
When I was little, he taught me how to sharpen a pocketknife without talking much at all.
He showed me how to tell when tomatoes were ready by the smell on the vine.
He never made me feel rushed.
If I asked a question, he took it seriously.
When I got older and told him I wanted to join the Marine Corps, he was the only person in the family who did not try to talk me out of it or turn it into some dramatic argument.
He just looked at me for a long moment and said, very quietly, that if I was going to wear the uniform, I should wear it honestly.
That was the closest he ever came to giving advice.
Whenever his military years came up, though, he closed like a door.
