“And when he died, I suddenly realized i wasn’t crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again... Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there.”
