Grandsons Visits

 My grandson came to visit today, something he didn't do as often now. He grew into a young man right in front of me, sitting on his bed and reading him a goodnight story from a book I had read my kids so very long ago. He used to like playing with well-used toys, especially the ones I kept, like Lincoln Logs and an Erector Set, which now sit on a shelf, gathering dust with the passage of time.

I remember the endless talks, mostly filled with questions like, "Why does the moon sometimes come out in the daylight?" or "How come it rains on one side of the street and not on the other?" His young mind, pondering one thing or another, like a sponge absorbing everything he could think of, each one bringing a smile to my face.

He used to like taking long walks with me, asking questions about the different types of trees, birds, or anything that piqued his curiosity, and relying on me to find the answers. When we walked in silence, it was as if he was absorbing everything like a bomb waiting to blow up, spewing question after question until I had to calm him down a bit, but he kept on asking, and I did my best to keep on answering.

I watch as the dusty road that leads to my house signals his arrival, with music blaring and, hopefully, good brakes on his car. He came to a stop, looking at me with that boyish smile I loved to see. What's up, old man? He asked, his voice a few decibels lower than I remember. He climbed the steps to my porch, where a picture of iced tea awaited, and the hug he always gave me warmed my heart.

He still had a thousand questions, but most of the topics were well beyond my reach, so I learned to tell him to look it up on that Google thing, so he got the correct answers. He was still my little grandson even though he towered over me like a giant tree, and his quest for knowledge far exceeded my capabilities of explanation.

There were many times when he shut off the questions and just enjoyed the company we shared, remembering the time that had passed and the fun we had together. We'd share a meal of tuna noodle casserole, his favorite dish, which I made every time he came to visit. A close second were egg salad sandwiches, which he claimed were the best in the world.

I asked him what his goals were, and the words poured out like lava as he told me he might be a tradesman or a computer programmer. He was still trying to figure it out, but worked every day at a fast food joint to help pay the bills at his mom's house, where he lived for now.

Darkness fell when, armed with a Tupperware full of tuna casserole and two egg salad sandwiches, he hugged me goodbye and promised to visit more often. I watched the dust kick up as he drove out of sight, his music loud enough to be heard well down the road, wondering why I saw his brake lights glow, and told myself he probably had another question, but decided to leave it until the next time he came for a visit.

Mike 2025