My grandfather was the quietest person in every room he ever entered. Not shy, not withdrawn, not socially inept the way people sometimes describe quiet men to soften the observation. He was simply a person who had decided, at some point in his life, that most things did not require comment, and who had lived that decision so thoroughly that by the time I knew him the silence had become structural, as much a part of him as his hands or his eyes. He lived in a small, fading house on the edge of a sleepy Ohio town, drove a truck that was old when I was born, kept a bird feeder in the backyard, and could repair almost anything mechanical with tools he had owned for thirty years. He never displayed a medal or a photograph from his service years. When I asked him about the past, he would smile with the patient indulgence of someone who has been asked the wrong question so many times that they no longer expect to be asked the right one. “That was a long time ago, sweetheart,” he would say, and change the subject, and you would find yourself somehow several minutes into a conversation about something else entirely without being able to name the moment when the turn had happened.