I pour some water.
My grandfather drinks.
He pulls another stool next to him.
Etan. He pats the stool. Sit.
He puts his giant hand on my head
and messes up my hair.
You remember what I told you?
I nod. I do remember.
That he will live forever
one way or the other,
in this world or the next.
He takes my small hands
in his large ones
and I stare at his worn fingers.
Did you talk to anyone today?
I don’t say anything. He sighs.
You’ve got to work on talking again.
The way he says this
is different than the way
everyone else does.
There is no anger;
his voice is like a flashlight
in the middle of the night
helping me find my way.
The world is like our shop.
So many beautiful things.
He waves his hands at
stacks of silver platters
and long gold chains,
cases of intricately carved earrings
and rings set with green jewels.
But the shop, Main Street,
the town? It’s a gift.
We are lucky to be here. All of us.
But it is not the whole world!
It’s only a part of it.
He looks over at his box,
then raises his finger
straight to the sky.
One of the best parts,
besides being with you,
is that I get to talk to people,
to hear about their lives.
Even Ruth Hershkowitz
though she drives me mad!
When he says this, I remember that
I need to get her the roast beef from the deli.
Hey, got anything new in your notebook?
I go to my backpack,
take out a notebook,
my mom’s notebook,
the edges frayed, the pages stuffed
with notes and magazine clippings,
grocery lists, and even receipts.
But everywhere, on all the pages,
are her tiny doodles of flowers
and trees, windy roads, and sunsets.
And now, here and there
are doodles of my own,
lists, mazes, baseball stats,
and things I need to remember.
I fold the cover back
and open to a little doodle
sketched in pencil.
Oh, he says, it’s a parrot? I love it.
Puffin, I think. It’s a puffin.
We stare at my unfinished drawing,
waiting for the other to speak.