When I was little, my grandfather made me a walking stick.
At the time, my grandparents lived in the mountains and of course whenever we visited, we would go out for walks along the creek that ran behind their house. I don't remember whose idea it was since I must have been about 4 or 5, but I remember watching him make it.
We walked along the creek looking at trees, and he found one with thin enough branches. He tore off a branch, and then we took it back to their house. My grandfather worked on antique furniture, so he had all the materials needed to smooth it out and polish it. I remember being fascinated by how smooth it was at the ends, almost like glass. He attached a rope to it so that I could wear it around my wrist.
I still have the stick. The rope is still attached.
Every time my phone rings, I feel like my heart is going to stop. One of the calls is going to be from my mother. My grandfather is in the hospital. He won't be coming out.