He didn’t do it with malice. It was a quiet, mechanical act, like breathing. He’d shift the remote so it was parallel to the table’s edge, align the glasses exactly north-south, fold the dishcloth into a tighter square, and place the stone precisely one inch to the left of the glasses’ hinge.
One winter, my grandfather fell ill. His hands, which had spent a lifetime adjusting, aligning, and perfecting, lay still on the hospital blanket. The basket stayed on the coffee table at home. No one touched it. A Little to the Left
My grandfather’s eyes, half-closed, flickered open. A faint smile touched his lips. “Out of place,” he whispered. He didn’t do it with malice