"Which one's Grandpa?" A picture in a frame, grainy and sun-faded and black-and-white, covered by a small square of thin glass.
"On the left." From the kitchen, over the sound of glasses and plates and running water. "He's the one shooting."
It did look like him, except younger, lighter. There was of course no wheeze, no faint odor of alcohol and medicine, and no chair: none of the things she had associated with him when she was little and he was alive.
"Why are the trees just sticks?"
The word meant nothing to her. "Can I keep it?"