Keep Moving

Twelve years ago my grandfather took me to our attic and unlocked his cedar chest, the one he always said carried memories of the broken old world. It looked like junk to me: tangles of ragged clothing, dulled knives and cans, and a stack of mildewed papers. He said it was his old 'kit,' one that kept him alive until we got the world back together. I'd always nodded and laughed at that, and he'd always shooed me away. Today was different; he reached into the chest, grasped the lowermost book in the stack, and tossed it to me.
"Read it. 'Tis not mine, but something I found along the way. This man and I grew up in a harsher world than yours. Maybe this'll help you understand."