The guy was a WWII pilot, and of all the things my brother could have on his desk about my granddad he has the bowling trophy from 1966.
The two of them never met. And for some reason something about seeing that stupid trophy amidst the clutter of sports regalia and stacks of books has me all weepy. My brother will never meet Papa, the WWII pilot, fixer of all things broken, and absolutely stellar grandparent, but at least he’s got his name and his eyes.
And, I guess, the bowling trophy.