My neighbor Johanna--a tall and beautiful Dutch woman in her sixties--told me that when she heard about my dad's death, she remembered how she used to pick berries with her own father when she was a little girl.
"I haven't thought about that in years," she said. "It's like the floodgates have been opened.
It's strange how triggers work. In the past few weeks I've been thinking as much about my grandparents as I have about my dad, hearing their stories and feeling thin Wyoming sunlight on my bare brown arms.