I considered this as I arranged the blueberries on my plate into a smiley face. “Couldn’t we just move to another planet? Like Jupiter? Or Neptune? They have rings, so they probably have a lot of extra space. But we’d have to go there in rocket ships.”
Grandpa stroked the stubble on his chin—a newly familiar sound that I found comforting. “Perhaps one day we’ll be able to move to other planets, but we haven’t quite figured out how to do that yet.”
He moved a long leg out from beneath the table, flexing it with relief. The cramped booth somehow emphasized his impressive height while making my six-year-old frame feel even smaller. As a pair, we probably looked like a question mark seated across from a comma.
“Eventually,” Grandpa continued, “our bodies grow so old that they don’t do what they’re supposed to.” He pointed to the graying hair on his head. “My hair used to be the same color as yours. And my hands used to be smooth like yours are. But I’m getting older, so my body doesn’t work the way it used to.”
I frowned, then raised my eyebrows in concern. “Are you dying, Grandpa?”
He reached for his spoon and began stirring again.
“In essence, yes.” Tap, tap, tap. “In fact, we all are.”
He reached for a box of the diner’s promotional matches next to the condiments. Singling out a green-headed stick, he struck the box’s flank and a small flame sprung to life. I watched the stick devolve from a crisp, pale yellow to a disfigured black as the fire slid toward his fingers.
With a brief flick of Grandpa’s wrist, the flame reduced to smoke.
“You should never play with matches, Grandpa.” I proudly echoed the advice I’d been recently taught to parrot by the teachers at my new elementary school.
A smile flirted with the edges of Grandpa’s mouth. “You’re right about that, Clover. But we’ll make an exception this once so that we can explore your question. Is that okay?”
I swirled my straw around in my orange juice, deliberating. “Okay. But promise you’ll be very, very careful.”
“I promise,” he said solemnly. “Now, let’s think about each of these matches as a human life.”
Pushing my plate away, I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my hands.
“In theory,” Grandpa continued, “each of these matches should burn for exactly the same amount of time, right?”
“Right.”
“But sometimes, you strike a match and it goes out almost immediately. Other times, it stops burning halfway.”
“And sometimes it breaks when you try to light it.”
“Exactly!” Grandpa’s approval felt like gold. “So even though they’re technically the same, each match is actually very unique. Sometimes it’s not as strong structurally, for reasons we can’t see just by looking at it. And there are outside factors that contribute—like how hard we strike it against the box, or the dampness in the air, or how much breeze there is when we try to light it. All those things can affect how long a match burns for.”
Vinyl groaned as I shifted impatiently in my seat. “But what’s that got to do with dying?”
Grandpa struck another match with a flourish. As if proving his point, it fizzled out almost immediately.
“Well, my dear, just as we don’t know how long a match will last until we light it, we never know how long a life will last until we live it. And often there are factors that we have no control over.”
“So who decides when we die then? Mommy and Daddy weren’t old like you—why did they die?”
I watched Grandpa’s chest rise then fall. The inner corners of his eyes glistened as if they held tiny diamonds.
He gave a helpless shrug. “Unfortunately, those are more big questions that we don’t know the answer to.”
“Well,” I said, stabbing my French toast with my fork. “Then we’ve got a lot of work to do, don’t we?”
* * *
Plate empty and stomach full, I watched Grandpa examine the messy handwriting on our check. He raised a polite hand in the direction of the waiter, a freckled beanpole with slicked-back hair.
“Excuse me, sir,” Grandpa said, holding up the check. “When you have a moment, it appears that you haven’t charged us for my granddaughter’s orange juice.”
Surprised at being addressed so politely, the young waiter glanced at the check, then waved dismissively. “Oh, that’s cool, man. Call it on the house.”
Grandpa pulled out his money clip and looked the waiter in the eye. “Well, that’s very kind—but if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to pay for it.”
The waiter frowned, then shrugged. “Suit yourself, man. That’ll be an extra two bucks.”
Grandpa peeled off several bills and stacked them neatly on top of the check. As he slipped the money clip back into his breast pocket, he met my eyes.
“It’s always important to be honest, Clover—even when people don’t hold you accountable.”
As Grandpa and I stood side by side at the crosswalk outside the diner, I had to crane my neck backward to look him in the eye, like trying to see the top of a skyscraper. My entire child-sized grip was only sufficient enough to grasp two of his long fingers, which I held on to obediently as we waited to cross the road. French toast was great, but I loved the second part of our newly developed Sunday ritual even more.
A small brass bell above the red French doors always announced our arrival into the bookstore. The jingle reminded me of the sound of Christmas—well, movie Christmases, at least, since my parents never celebrated the holiday itself. When questioned, they told me that it was hypocritical to celebrate someone you didn’t believe in (I wasn’t sure if they were referring to Santa or Baby Jesus).
“Hello, Patrick! Hello, Clover!”
Miss Bessie, the bookstore’s owner, was balanced in heels on a stool, rearranging a procession of mysteries on a high shelf. Beneath her tight, polyester dress, her large breasts looked like they were resting on two inflatable swimming rings. I wondered whether it helped her stay afloat better when she went to the beach.
Grandpa tipped his hat. “Hello, Miss Bessie—lovely to see you.” He reached out a hand to help her down from the stool.
“Hello, Miss Bessie,” I echoed shyly from behind Grandpa.
Miss Bessie beamed at me. “Lucky for you, darling girl, I’ve got some great new children’s books this week.” She reached a hand toward me. “Should we go take a look?”
Grandpa offered Miss Bessie a grateful smile, then looked down at me. “Off you go,” he said, patting me on the head. “But remember—only one book, so choose wisely.”
I felt the weight of his dramatic intonation—this weekly mission was one I took seriously. At least I knew I’d have plenty of time to make my decision, since Grandpa always spent ages in the nonfiction section making his selection. After all, he was allowed only one book too.
As Miss Bessie and I rounded a corner into the colorful children’s nook, she reached behind a potted plant and produced a bowl full of candy. Holding it in front of me, she pushed her pointer finger to her lips.
“Ssshhh,” she whispered. “I’ll let you take two pieces as long as you don’t tell your grandpa.”
Staring at the candy, I was torn—I really wanted both a Hershey’s Kiss and a lollipop. Technically, Grandpa hadn’t said I couldn’t take two pieces, but Miss Bessie was acting like it was a secret. I rocked on my heels, thinking it over.
“Thank you, Miss Bessie,” I said, holding my head high and making firm eye contact. “But I’ll just take one.”