It was always my grandfather who made me feel feeble even though, in my mind, he was always the one who could not really take care of himself. Of course, there was always help. Grandma still lived, and my parents lived only a few houses down, but it was my grandfather who always made comments about my life and my stature and the choices I made. Honestly, I never even knew him that well, so, the sad truth of the matter reveals itself to be something, perhaps, a bit more nasty. I am week. I amount to very little. The things I’m capable of are not things that matter, are not things that require strength or perseverance or intelligence even, maybe. I honestly do not know what it is exactly that my grandfather finds so weak about me.