Time Traveler

A grey-haired man in his sixties places a slice of pizza on the table. A little girl, likely his granddaughter, sits down to eat with him. She looks to be four or five, with flaming hair and a happy smile. He sits too and seriously pulls out hand sanitizer, gently wiping it onto her hands.

She complains that the bench is too hard to sit on. He snuggles her onto his lap. Dreams that were and dream that will be are frozen in time as their hair mingles. She is beautiful. He is loving. She will grow up with him in her life.


I think of my grandpa. I remember how he groaned and cried out in pain the last time I saw him. He was half-asleep and the nurses had called me in to try to calm him. They had to change his diaper and he was hitting them, caught in that twilight zone between harsh reality and dreams. He kept yelling, "Let me off! I want to get off this train. You're hurting me!"

I wish I could let him off. I wish I could release him from his earthly pain, the rashes, the Parkinson's, all the hurts of old age that does not die, will not die. At the same time, I want to sit and hold his hand and never, ever let go. When he's awake, he still has a tender smile. He wants off the train but I selfishly want to keep him here, for me.


The grey grandpa is wiping pizza sauce off his granddaughter's face. I want to weep. Does she savor his gentleness? Does she value the way he can control his hands? They do not tremble or falter. He is strong for her and she accepts it with a smile.

"Another bite?" he prompts her.


I suppress my urge to run over. I want to say, to both of them, "Treasure this moment! One day you will miss each other so bad it hurts. Please, enjoy every drop of today!"

But they chew pizza and split a drink. She giggles when he tickles her. I will not disturb their quiet joy with knowledge of their futures.