He never washed the scarf during the season, either.
He was superstitious.
My grandmother once tried to sneak it into the laundry basket.
Grandpa caught her halfway to the washing machine and acted as though she’d attempted to sabotage the team personally.
She handed it back, laughing. « One day, that thing is going to stand up by itself. »
Grandpa kissed her cheek. « Then we’ll give it its own seat. »
My grandmother, June, died 12 years ago.
The scarf remained. So did the empty chair beside Grandpa’s recliner.
My grandmother, June, died 12 years ago.
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