My mother often said to me, “Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.” I never understood why. One day I ignored him and sat down anyway. Grandpa smiled, walked up to my ear and whispered, “Can you come to sleep next to me tonight? simo”

image

He pointed to the telescope.

When I was five, I had once told Grandpa:

“Someday I want to stay up all night with you and see shooting stars.”

I had completely forgotten.

He’s not.

That night a rare meteor shower was going to occur, and Grandpa had spent months repairing Grandma’s old telescope to fulfill that wish of my childhood before her operation.

Around two in the morning, all three of us were on the porch.

I was on my mattress.

Grandpa, in his.

Mom was sitting between us.

Suddenly, the first trail of light crossed the sky.

“I saw her!” I shouted.

Grandpa laughed.

Then a second appeared.

And a third.

At one point, Mom put her head on Grandpa’s shoulder.

And suddenly I understood something I hadn’t even thought about before that night.

My mother was not afraid of grandpa.

I was afraid of losing it.