T H E T U S C A R O R A R E V I E W 2 0 2 3 1 5 All That Is Lost A N N A A R R I N G T O N e called me Sam again. It was a short visit in March, down to Illinois. Grandma and Grandpa had 50 years together, and at the party we threw, the tables were lined with silver and gold confetti. It wasn’t meant to be a surprise party, but Grandpa marveled at the fact that we got it past him. My mom and I exchanged brief eye contact that said, “I told him about this time and time again.” Then, he hugged me. His hands trembled against my low back, and I pulled away at the sensation. “Thank you for putting this together, Sammy.” Sam is my cousin. The fields there are perfect for producing watermelons, sandy soil and whatnot. Grandpa’s shelves were lined with watermelon-themed china, towels, and figurines. His shed of dust-ridden plows and tractors only touched by the hands of us curious younger ones. In Illinois, the grounds were different—sharp and clingy, so my mom insisted we wear shoes there. I never wore them on the soft earth in Maryland, if I could get away with it. The afternoon following the 50th anniversary celebration, everyone was inside sipping on Grandma’s mint tea, but I slipped outside, eager to explore. I followed a trail of these round, green apple-like things that always looked like they rained down from the Illinois sky. Bumpy little things, though all we really knew about them was that we weren’t allowed to eat them. On the other side of Grandpa’s property was a small house, where raw wood was just sawed off a tree and glued together into a real-life Lincoln log home. I thanked those bumpy green apples for leading me there. Inside, a dog barked weakly. There were no cars in the driveway, so I peeked into the porch door and the air snapped with silence as his brown eyes looked just past me. The door wasn’t locked, and H
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