He motioned to me to help him get up, and we walked step by step to the table, his hand resting heavily on my arm. Again, I took in how frail he’d become, and I couldn’t quite believe it, as if his old self were concealed within this approximation of my grandfather. I had the irrational feeling that this was just a phase, and he would soon be restored to vitality.

“I toast to her future,” Ketevan said in Turkish. “Like you, I toast to her dreams. So that we may be together as a family, and we don’t have to dream of things far away.”

Of course, my toast had been a platitude, open-ended to accommodate any wish. Still, I might have imagined Natela dreaming of a future in Europe or America, one in which she would be traveling the world. At her age, I had wished only to be off, to be free, to start my life elsewhere.

Ketevan continued. “I toast that these times come to an end, and our countries can manage on their own. I toast,” she said, “that people don’t have to leave their homes.”