The old man leans on me, and I think he loves me. I can tell from the way his hand encircles my wooden handle, which is worn smooth from his years of rubbing at it. He has replaced the rubber tip at my end more than a few times, and it always feels good when he does so. The new one fits so snugly, and afterward he and I feel more secure, no slippage, as he walks across the kitchen linoleum. He laughs when he uses me to swordfight with his grandchildren. They wield some distant cousin of mine that they found in the yard, and I admit it hurts a little when we collide. It’s worth it, though, to see his pleasure. Before she died, he would let her borrow me sometimes, when she was unsteady on her feet and needed the support. Her body was lighter than his, and I liked the way she leaned on me while she tapped her way into the bathroom at night. So I don’t know how he …