“No,” my grandmother said. Her voice was soft but firm.

The war in their living room was fought in millimeters. The front lines were the woven walls of that basket. Casualties: none. Victories: neither. Every night, a silent, gentle siege.

One winter, my grandfather fell ill. His hands, which had spent a lifetime adjusting, aligning, and perfecting, lay still on the hospital blanket. The basket stayed on the coffee table at home. No one touched it.

“A little to the left,” she said.

My mother started to reach for it. “We should clear this away.”

Every evening, my grandfather would tidy it.

“And why don’t you let him?” I pressed.