My cane is copper, metallic, sturdy, with a neatly squared-off handle. Only modern compared to grandma’s wooden relic for her osteoarthritis. My sister and I spent many afternoons with her cane, pretending to knock Great Uncle Hiram in the knees. Grandma hooted. In my 7-year-old world, she was tied to the cane. It was part of her. Grandma, the cane, the arthritis.