When I was a child, I burned my arm while playing near a kerosene heater at my paternal grandmother’s house. I was no more than four years old at the time, but I the evidence of the burn remains. It has grown with me on my left arm. My paternal grandmother had a similar scar. She once told me how she got it, but I have long since forgotten. In my mind, it was one of the many things that solidified our special bond. When I saw her in the hospital this summer, I looked for that scar in a semi-denial that the woman lying before me was my Gramma.