It wasn't the moment they laid them in the ground, but soon after that I realized that I hadn't asked them everything I needed to know. If asked, I could rattle off the names of her siblings, his rank upon his release from the army, the name of the restaurant she owned, the continents he'd traveled to, and that she once used an iron skillet for a weapon. There's a box of pictures of some girls and postcards postmarked from overseas and a funny story about shrapnel in his ass. But that's not my grandfather's story, nor my grandmother's. And everyone has one, whether they choose to tell it or not. Whether they tell you the real one or not. Whether they tell or keep the best parts to themselves. Whether they tell or don't tell the pivotal moments that made them who they are. In my childish rush to hurry up and get grown, I forgot that my grandparents were people too; with stories that the grown me would wish to know more fully. Facts are one thing, a ne