I drove out to Arizona for Thanksgiving, it must've been the year after my dad died. My grandfather was is in the early stage of Alzheimer's, and I was asked to drive him into town to pick up his prescriptions. Before he got in, I had to clear off the passenger seat to make room. I apologized for the clutter, explaining that without a co-pilot, I had to be sure everything I needed was in arm's reach: snacks, water, music, coffee.
As I cleared the seat, he looked up at me, hearing words I hadn't even thought.
"I'm sorry your marriage didn't work out."
Caught off guard, I stopped and looked over at him, standing outside my jeep looking me in the eyes. I hadn't meant to imply anything about being lonely or wishing for a travel partner. I wonder what he thought about me roaming about on my own.
I don't remember how I responded, but to this day there are so many words nestled into what he said, why he said it. I don't even know if he still remembered my name at that point. A lot of that time is so foggy now.
I don't know that my grandfather and I have ever really talked, like my grandmother and I did so frequently. She and I would sit at their dining table and talk for hours over coffee or tea, and usually something chocolate. My grandfather never really said much. I think that moment outside my aunt's house was the most intimate conversation we've ever had, and it was no more than a sentence or two.
I know there was so much behind that sentence, even if I will never fully understand it. And while it was such a brief moment in time, it is so vivid in my memory: him standing in a white t-shirt looking over at me, gravel and cacti in the background.
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