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I have never seen my grandfather without his glass of wine. Out of the nearly a thousand Sundays that I’ve gone to my grandparents’ house in my nineteen years of life, I have never seen my grandfather without his glass of wine. When I was little, I hardly ever noticed it. After all, most of the adults in the adult table had a glass of wine in front of them, too. However, as life happened and I grew up, I saw change. My cousins got married, had to move, and sometimes, my aunts and uncles weren’t at the dinner table. But there’s one thing that never changed. My grandfather was always there, and he always had his glass of wine. Always. Every time I see the glass of wine in front of him, in the long, wooden dinner table that is always overly decorated by my grandmother, I know that everything is going to be alright. Because as long as I keep seeing it, I am soothed by the thought that some things never change. A few years ago, just like on any other Sunday, my family and I were sitting in the dinner table, sharing a huge meal over endless chatter. Something happened that day, however, that had never happened before. My grandfather stood up, with his glass of wine in hand, and started to tell a story. He told all of us how his time at Notre Dame University truly changed his life. He told us how close he’d become to one of the Catholic priests there, and how this friendship had changed him completely. But unlike other times my grandfather had spoken, he started crying. He couldn’t finish his story. He sat down, took a long sip of his red wine, and continued to cry silently. Nothing could cut through the stillness of the room, but a few seconds later, my grandma continued for him. She told us how important Catholicism is to him, how much he thanks God every day for giving him this family, and then turned to my grandpa to tell him how much we love him. My grandpa smiled, and took another long sip. His red wine was still there. As he’s getting older, the same scenario has repeated itself at my grandparents’ dining room table. My grandpa tells the same story that he thinks he’s never told before, the emotions get the best of him, and he turns to my grandma for comfort. Even though I’m saddened by the thought that his memory is failing him, the glass of red wine, that’s still always there, reminds me that everything is alright. My grandpa’s alive and well, and that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.