Grandpa

“Grandpa.” In my lifetime, only one man has answered that name, when there should have been two. Now the other answers, him just barely in front of me. My footsteps are meant to keep slow time, following his just behind. His shoulders weren’t broad, he isn’t as tall as my other grandfather I know, the one I knew in life. He wears the glasses that betray his nearsightedness, the same disability I and most of his sons acquired with time. I must follow because I am merely a child. He is a man of tradition, and children should be seen and not heard. And yet he breaks this code, his curiosity overcoming his supposed good sense. He shouldn’t be encouraging me to be an obnoxious child who interrupts adult conversation. But he wants to know who I am as we walk, the lake glittering beside us, everlasting. He tells me it’s much cleaner than it was when he was my age, what is my age? I reply, and his expression becomes one of surprise. I am younger than I look. He wants to know more. Who is this girl, the daughter of his youngest. This little girl with blond hair who never met him in life, yet he meets her here, in some other place. He might be a devoted welder, bent on maintaining order and control, but she is a novelty not to be ignored. And so he asks. Where were his sons now? What about his wife? What about himself in the far away future she is from. He coughs, a wrenching sound that tugs at my heart and I look away. It is the lung cancer that will kill him, I know. I will never meet him in life, but I can meet him here.