My grandfather keeps a stone in his pocket, A keepsake, smooth and rounded, Pressed between his fingers as he climbs, A symbol of his youth, perhaps, Or of a time when he was stronger. He speaks of the mountain as if it were a friend, Climbing with patience and gentle strength. I watch him, trying to understand, The quiet resolve in his eyes, His steady steps that speak of years, Each one adding to the silent story, Of a life lived in ascent, in love, And in the quiet strength of roots deep in the earth.