Longer legs. Front tooth grown back crooked enough to give her extra character. She had started reading chapter books and asking impossible questions about stars, history, and whether dogs know when they’re being lied to.
Grace the elephant was beside her in the rocking chair, older and more loved-looking now. One ear mended twice. Ribbon gone.
She sipped lemonade from a clear glass.
Made a face.
“Too sour?”
“A little.”
I took the glass, added more sugar from the packet she kept just for lemonade emergencies, stirred it with my finger, handed it back.
She drank again.
“Better.”
We watched the yard for a while.
Then she said, “Grandpa?”
“Yeah, bug?”
“Were you scared that day?”
I didn’t ask which day.
Kids don’t always say the thing, but they know when you know.
“Yes,” I said.
“Of Mommy?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
I looked out at the darkening yard.
“I was scared I might be too late.”
She thought about that.
Then she slid her hand into mine.
“You weren’t.”
No, I wasn’t.
Not that day.
But I had come close enough that the edge of it still wakes me sometimes.
Daniel came out a few minutes later with a plate of cookies and sat on the porch step.