Colin's grandfather and I have a largely non-verbal relationship. Over the last three, almost three, years, I have spent many, many weekends at the vineyard, and many hours with Colin's grandfather, usually sitting on the deck watching the sunset, or on a cool Sunday afternoon enjoying the sun's warmth.

He intimidated me at first. His presence and gruff voice, coupled with long silences, had me wary and nervous. The gruff voice has become a quiet, sympathetic voice. His silences are, if anything, longer. I have become comfortable with silence, or near silence. It is companionable. We do chat, and I will ask probing or benign questions if they come to mind, they usually don't. I know his story well enough by now, both his version and Colin's. Now, it is his company I enjoy, not the details of his past, or his thoughts on topical affairs.

I know this, he is winding down, that this time in his life is the reward for the hard work, and a meditative time for remembering whatever it is he cares to remember—his wife, I assume, but more, I'm sure. There is sadness in his eyes.

I appreciate that he lets time flow, that a moment spent in repose is equal to a moment spent in endeavor. I appreciate that very much. I have watched people who are unable to be still. It is unsettling. His stillness, his quietude, enhances my own. And, perhaps, vice versa. We are a somewhat unlikely couple, I suppose. Who's to say?

After a day's work, when Colin joins us, when Marketa joins us, when Yenny, who is family, but has her own place in the family, prepares dinner, the conversation is still companionable, still quiet, relatively, though there are plenty of smiles, if not always laughter. Marketa can make anyone smile, and does. Colin's quiet observations, coupled with his often dead-serious demeanor belies a spot-on sense of humor. He can make us laugh, and does. When I say us, I do not include Colin's grandfather. I'm not sure I've ever seen him laugh. Sometimes, when he and Yenny recall something from their shared past, his eyes brighten, and comes a quiet, interior kind of laughter. 

Marketa says stop writing and come to bed.