Reopened
His eyes held a library of books that were now dusty and forgotten. "Hi, Grandpa." I squeezed his hand, his skin paper thin. He blinked. "Hi," he croaked, tilting his head to the side. "Who are you?" I should be used to this by now. But I wasn't. I swallowed around the growing lump in my throat. "It's me, Erica. Your granddaughter." Who lives right across the street and visits you every day. "Oh." He shifted his gaze to the flickering newscast in the background. I lowered myself onto the couch. This wasn't the grandfather I'd grown up with. I had fuzzy warm images of going to church with him every week, bumping up and down in his stormy gray truck. I could still hear him playing his harmonica or relating stories about attending the county fair as a boy, words tumbling out on top of each other. We sat in silence. Some silences are comfortable, refreshing, like dipping your toes into the pool on a