Home—oh, too soon!—with jars full of Grandpa's cottage. The first time without him there. He didn't feel up to going.
Helen lives across the hall from him at the seniors' residence. This Christmas, we'll give her jars of sweet corn sizzling over the campfire. Such a patient lady. Smiling like she's never heard Grandpa's tales: the time a bear knocked on the cottage door, how he was stuck for days during the blizzard of 1994. Many times she's seen his photos. Sunrises and sunsets. Us snowshoeing. Us splashing in the lake.
A nice college student serves in the residence's dining room. Caitlin? Carrie? Cassidy? Grandpa can't remember her name, just that she always says, 'Take your time, Mr. Hewes.' He likes her smile and wonders at her black nail polish. Laughs about the zombie costume she wore at Halloween. We'll give her a jar of hoots, another of wind whoosh in dark treetops. I'll thank her and finally learn her name.
On Christmas Eve, over we'll go to see Grandpa. Ellie will bring gift-wrapped cricket chirp she caught late one night. Long, long after her usual bedtime, she'll tell him. From me, jars of his great-granddaughter boohooing when her marshmallow caught fire and giggling at Peter’s silly ghost stories.
His room full of our first trip without him, I'll ask him to reconsider: please come to Christmas dinner. There'll be the stomp of snow off boots at the door and the ping of the oven timer: the turkey's done! Pop, pop of Christmas crackers. Grandma's old china clattering. He'll recognize the pattern. And leftovers—gingerbread, sugar cookies, a fancy tin of us all singing 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'—to take back to his room.
Please come, Grandpa. I think he will.
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