As I chop lettuce for dinner, I get hit with the sweetest little flashback.

Brett and I are having deluxe salads, but my mind wandered straight back to little Beca in the grocery store, watching my grandpa in his element. He’d pick up two heads of lettuce, one in each hand, and weigh them back and forth like he was sizing up gold bars. I felt like I was just learning the ways of the world.

Then he’d spot a better one, swap them out, and start the whole process over again. Grocery runs with him were never rushed. They were thoughtful, intentional. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning more than how to choose lettuce. I was learning how to care—about little things, about people.

We always had lettuce in the fridge—mostly for his salads, and for those bologna sandwiches that somehow hit different with a good crunch.

I wish I had more time to soak in his quiet wisdom. But tonight, as I toss our greens together, it kind of feels like he’s here with me—guiding my hands, just like he used to.