We drove down the long straight highway. The air changed from cool and fog-filled to warm and dry. Grayson squirmed in his carseat as mom handed him one toy after another. And then we were there, knocking on the door of my grandparents’ house.
My little one was hesitant, hid behind my leg, clutched my knee. His last visit had been when he was barely one. I imagined he may not remember.
My grandpa reached out to say hello and Grayson ducked back behind me. He peered out, unsure, and Grandpa waved.
When Grandpa first met Grayson he had watched him with warm eyes, but didn’t want to hold his tiny little figure. That had changed. Grayson was bigger now, walking, less fragile.
I sat next to my grandpa on the couch while my little guy moved trucks across carpet. Time passed, we chatted, and then Grayson toddled over and climbed into my lap.
Grandpa reached out his hand and Grayson looked at him. Then Grayson poked out one finger. Grandpa mimicked him. Grayson stretched and fingertip met fingertip. I smacked my lips together and made a pop as they touched. Grayson let out a giggle. My grandpa smiled and put out his finger again. Grayson grinned. Pop! Pop! Pop! Laughter filled the air.
We sat in a quiet, warm happiness. Fingertip to fingertip, a great-grandpa and his namesake.