My grandfather Jake’s Deer Island farm runs down to the sea—sweet grass slipping to water.
Sometimes seals sun on the warm sand.
There used to be a large flock of sheep in the field that the townspeople would help shear twice a year. Now there are only three sheep—Jake’s favorites: Bitty and Flossie and Flip.
Other things have changed.
My grandfather is losing his eyesight.
He can still take care of his three sheep.
He can still cook.
He can read when he uses a large viewing machine.
But soon—the worst thing of all—is that he may not be able to drive his beloved 1938 midnight-black Cord car with running boards.
He has proudly driven my grandmother to town for years when she doesn’t walk or bicycle to the store.
He has driven his colorfully decorated car in parades and on the Fourth of July.
He has washed and polished the car.
He has loved the car.
Things are changing.
I hate change.