I told her he made pancakes every Saturday morning. Shaped like Mickey Mouse. He burned the ears every single time.
I told her he whistled when he worked. Always the same song. Some old Beatles tune.
“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Ruth whispered.
I stared at her.
“How did you know that?”
She smiled. Tears were running down her face.
“I sang it to him,” she said. “That night. In this room. I sang it to him over and over for three hours while he slept. It was the only song I could think of.”
Behind me, Grandma made a sound like her heart had broken open.
“He whistled it his whole life,” she said. “Every single day. I never knew where he got it. I never taught it to him. Frank didn’t even like the Beatles.”
Ruth closed her eyes. She was smiling.
“He remembered,” she whispered. “Somehow. He remembered.”
