It is natural for my son to put his arm around his grandmother. Like his father, he is a comforter. He knows intuitively the right moment to reach for a hand and just hold it, to give a sympathetic smile, to put his arm around someone. It is a gift.
The photo is fuzzy, I know; it isn't about the quality of light or clarity of focus. These are two people I love so deeply sharing a moment of grief. He is 11; she is 84. My mother sobs as she looks at her brother's life in photos—we have just left his funeral. Duncan walks beside her, then attaches himself to her. He is exactly what she needs at this moment: a quiet hug, human touch, permission to weep.
Someday, he will have a wife, and she will be a well-loved woman. I know. I am married to his father.