“He was a great man,” Jon said. He sat on the edge of his bed replacing his day socks with his sleeping socks. The sun was below the horizon, casting a few final remnants of day into the darkening sky. Walden knew not to close the curtains.
Jon was still able to change from day clothes to pajamas, by himself, though it took much longer than it used to. He had to be careful not to lift a leg and throw himself off balance. Walden was impressed how nimble his frail grandfather had kept himself.
“Give me the book,” Jon said. “I like to have a short read before sleeping. A reminder. It helps me join with him and spend time in that place we go to when we sleep.”
Jon had authored several things during his teaching days but his book, ‘The Life and Times of Snorri Sturluson’, meant the most to him, because of the ancestral link between the two of them, over the gulf of eight hundred years.
“He was greatly misunderstood,” Jon said.
Walden handed the well-worn book with the faded red jacket to his grandfather. It had been a long day.
“He wasn’t against them, wasn’t in it for himself.” Jon’s voice began the slow fade into sleep. He held the book but did not open it.
Walden turned out the bedside lamp.
“They shouldn’t have been so unkind to us,” Jon said in the dark as Walden tiptoed from his grandfather’s room.
“I’m sorry Afi.”
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