He comes through the screen door and stomps his boots clear on the porch, washes his hands in the bathroom, bulls into the kitchen to take his seat for meat and starch and gravy and I watch him masticate my grandmother’s offering, gristle glistening in his mustache, and damn if I don’t see a particle—just a mote or two—of the crazy that’s coming decades from now, of the change from reins and iron to rants and innocence, of the ghosts he’ll share his dinners with and ask after long past their deaths, and I know it has always been there like a landmine, waiting to pop a scream of smoke into the sky and chew up my mother’s bones, that little germ of crazy that each member of the family has, like fingerprints with teeth that sometimes bite everything they touch and sometimes bide their time for a healthy vein to strike.