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 summer day. Other silences, like this one, were thick and heavy like maple syrup.

 "Sing a song."

 The request wasn't unusual. Music was the one thing he still connected to.

 I flipped off the TV. "What should I sing?"

 He shrugged.

 I cleared my throat and started to screech out an old Sunday School song. "I've got the joy joy joy down in my heart…"

 "Down in my heart," he added.

 My own heart skipped a beat. I paused, mouth half open.

 "Keep singing," he instructed.

 "Um…down in my heart."

 He joined me for the rest of the song. When we'd finished, he nodded slowly. "I like that song."

 "So do I." I glanced back over at him.

 He sat, eyes closed, humming to himself.

 I smiled.

 The library was still closed, but a story had been reopened.

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