When I turned around, my great-grandfather was sitting in a chair in the room behind me, watching through the open window. I ran away. For years I saw disgust in the little smirk on his face. Through his eyes I saw myself: the little pervert. But now:—finally getting to relax after a busy morning, kids wild with sugar, forcing themselves under every piece of furniture and into every corner looking for those painted eggs, a day of stooping and scooping, their irrepressible energy making his old bones frantic and joyful—finally a moment to sit, and to his great delight a naked woman leaning towards him, her empty pail beckoning, her nipples hard in the cold spring wind, and around and around through time he traces his own fine edges out to the delicate points, all the nipples of his life blowing in through the curtains. And then, a surprise, his life thrown forward and tied up into a previously unimagined future: this little boy, standing on his toes, his open hand reaching up.