I have his photo now. The very famous one, in our little family, of him in his Stetson, looking kind and wise and rancherly.
It was my mother's favorite image of her father. She kept it on her bedside table, caked with dust and nicotine and cat hairs, yet always looking kind and rancherly. Watching over her in her sleep.
I have it now. I have the hat, too. I have all the possessions of hers which seemed worth preserving.
What will happen to these family keepsakes after I am gone? I have no children to give them to.
For the time being, he can watch over my mother's sweet little cat, sleeping happily on my guitar amplifier.