“A little to the left,” he’d murmur, nudging the stone with his index finger.

One winter, my grandfather fell ill. His hands, which had spent a lifetime adjusting, aligning, and perfecting, lay still on the hospital blanket. The basket stayed on the coffee table at home. No one touched it.

The basket was the problem. Or rather, the contents of the basket. Every evening, after dinner, my grandmother would place a small wicker basket on the coffee table. Inside: the television remote, a pair of reading glasses, a folded dishcloth, and a single, smooth river stone she’d picked up from a beach in Ireland fifty years ago.

She picked up the stone, turned it over in her palm. “Because I love him.”

She moved it back. “There,” she said. “Is that better?”