"remember when he rubbed iodine and baby oil onto his arms?" they asked gathered around a table immersed in memories of the war days when his arms had glistened tan with the improvised sunscreen i didn't remember too young, they said my mind clearly saw his arms but they were tired, wrinkled and freckled, and covered in scabs each one marked by a date in black ink "for careful observation" they had said "to check his progress" they had said i assumed they had meant towards death but glad they didn't say it for my vision was already blurry with tears because it was leukemia and he was my grandfather those numbers bothered me written so carefully entered on a graph his life now a line, zooming towards zero his wounds mere numbers i silently shook my head to their rhetorical question wishing i could remember the iodine and baby oil days and forget his numbered wounds