On his deathbed, my grandfather called my father into his room and urged everyone else to leave. My grandmother, I’m told, absolutely refused, until he threatened to stand up and move her out himself if he had to. He’d been bedridden for weeks.
My father was the youngest, only ten when his father began to die. His oldest brother already had a daughter, a few years old, but closer to his age than any of his siblings.
“Go traveler, and imitate,” my grandfather said to his son who was too young to understand but old enough to remember the words.