Mother kept her father in a cookbook. Julia Child, but still. He dropped from the pages one day and I picked him up. "You belong in the family gallery," I said, carrying him to the wall of relatives. I pinned him where he fit best but he wriggled away like a sullen butterfly. I took him to be framed and watched the twist of wire attach to his back. "Let’s try this again," I said as I hung him from the new hook on the wall. He pulled away and fell off. "And again!" I murmured, hammering a sturdy nail into the wall. I set him on that but he writhed and swung and would not stay put. "Maybe you just want to be with your wife." I pushed some uncles out of the way so he could join the woman he had abandoned long ago. But then the wall began to crack and crumble, spilling entire generations onto the floor. I picked up my grandfather, marched him into the kitchen and into the book he had come from.There was no resistance this time. I piled every other book in the house on top of him, just to make sure.
