Around two in the morning, Grandpa whispered:
“Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“Still awake?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
A few minutes later, the first streak of light crossed the sky.
Then another.
Then dozens.
I ran to the telescope.
“Grandpa! Come look!”
But when I turned around, he wasn’t watching the sky.
He was watching me.
“What?”
He smiled.
“Nothing. I just wanted to remember your face tonight.”
My throat tightened.
Around three-thirty, I asked him the question I had been afraid to ask.
“Are you scared about tomorrow?”
For once, Grandpa didn’t pretend to be brave.
“Yes.”
I sat beside his bed.
He reached for my hand.
“Your grandmother used to say courage isn’t being unafraid. It’s having someone beside you while you’re afraid.”
We stayed like that until sunrise.
Before leaving for the hospital, Grandpa gave me an envelope.
“Open it after I go.”
Inside was a photograph of me at five years old, asleep against his shoulder.
