My grandfather’s coat still had sweets in the pocket

Dear Delyara, My grandfather died when I was nine. I am thirty-four now. My mother finally emptied the attic and gave me his old wool coat because I had always said I wanted it. When I tried it on, my hand found something wrapped in paper inside the pocket. Two boiled sweets, fused together with age. I started laughing before I cried. Grandad always carried sweets for me. He would pretend he had none, search every pocket dramatically, then produce one like magic. I had forgotten the exact wrapper until I saw it. My mother wanted to throw them away because they are twenty-five years old and probably toxic. I said no. They are in a small jar on my desk. I keep thinking about the final time he put his hand into that pocket expecting to give them to someone, perhaps me. He died suddenly, so nobody knew anything was final. There are no profound last words in our family. Apparently there are two sweets that waited a quarter of a century inside a coat for the child who used to expect them.