Thereās a hospital room at the end of a life where someone, right in the middle of the floor, has pitched a green tent. A person wakes up inside it, breathless and afraid, not knowing where he is. A young man sitting next to him whispers:
āDonāt be scared.ā
Isnāt that the best of all lifeās ages, an old man thinks as he looks at his grandchild. When a boy is just big enough to know how the world works but still young enough to refuse to accept it. Noahās feet donāt touch the ground when his legs dangle over the edge of the bench, but his head reaches all the way to space, because he hasnāt been alive long enough to allow anyone to keep his thoughts on Earth. His grandpa is next to him and is incredibly old, of course, so old now that people have given up and no longer nag him to start acting like an adult. So old that itās too late to grow up. Itās not so bad either, that age.
The bench is in a square; Noah blinks heavily at the sunrise beyond it, newly woken. He doesnāt want to admit to Grandpa that he doesnāt know where they are, because this has always been their game: Noah closes his eyes and Grandpa takes him somewhere theyāve never been before. Sometimes the boy has to squeeze his eyes tight, tight shut while he and Grandpa change buses four times in town, and sometimes Grandpa just takes him straight into the woods behind the house by the lake. Sometimes they go in the boat, often for so long that Noah falls asleep, and once theyāve made it far enough Grandpa whispers āopen your eyesā and gives Noah a map and a compass and the task of working out how theyāre going to get home. Grandpa knows heāll always manage, because there are two things in life in which Grandpaās faith is unwavering: mathematics and his grandson. A group of people calculated how to fly three men to the moon when Grandpa was young, and mathematics took them all the way there and back again. Numbers always lead people back.
But this place lacks coordinates; there are no roads out, no maps lead here.
Noah remembers that Grandpa asked him to close his eyes today. He remembers that they crept out of Grandpaās house and he knows that Grandpa took him to the lake, because the boy knows all the sounds and songs of the water, eyes open or not. He remembers damp wood underfoot as they stepped into the boat, but nothing after that. He doesnāt know how he and Grandpa ended up here, on a bench in a round square. The place is strange but everything here is familiar, like someone stole all the things you grew up with and put them into the wrong house. Thereās a desk over there, just like the one in Grandpaās office, with a mini calculator and squared notepaper on top. Grandpa whistles gently, a sad tune, takes a quick little break to whisper:
āThe square got smaller overnight again.ā
Then he starts whistling again. Grandpa seems surprised when the boy gives him a questioning look, aware for the first time that he said those words aloud.
āSorry, Noahnoah, I forgot that thoughts arenāt silent here.ā
Grandpa always calls him āNoahnoahā because he likes his grandsonās name twice as much as everyone elseās. He puts a hand in the boyās hair, not ruffling it, just letting his fingers rest there.
āThereās nothing to be afraid of, Noahnoah.ā
Hyacinths are blooming beneath the bench, a million tiny purple arms reaching up from the stalks to embrace the rays of sunlight. The boy recognizes the flowers, theyāre Grandmaās, they smell like Christmas. For other children maybe that scent would be ginger biscuits and mulled wine, but if youāve ever had a Grandma who loved things that grew then Christmas will always smell like hyacinths. There are shards of glass and keys glittering between the flowers, like someone had been keeping them safe in a big jar but then fell over and dropped it.
āWhat are all those keys for?ā the boy asks.
āWhich keys?ā asks Grandpa.
The old manās eyes are strangely empty now. He raps his temples in frustration. The boy opens his mouth to say something, but stops himself when he sees that. He sits quietly instead and does what Grandpa taught him to do if he gets lost: take in his surroundings, look for landmarks and clues. The bench is surrounded by trees, because Grandpa loves trees, because trees donāt give a damn what people think. Silhouettes of birds lift up from them, spread out across the heavens, and rest confidently on the winds. A dragon is crossing the square, green and sleepy, and a penguin with small chocolate-colored handprints on its stomach is sleeping in one corner. A soft owl with only one eye is sitting next to it. Noah recognizes them too; they used to be his. Grandpa gave him the dragon when he had just been born, because Grandma said it wasnāt suitable to give newborn children dragons as cuddly toys and Grandpa said he didnāt want a suitable grandson.
People are walking around the square, but theyāre blurry. When the boy tries to focus on their outlines they slip from his eyes like light through venetian blinds. One of them stops and waves to Grandpa. Grandpa waves back, tries to look confident.
āWhoās that?ā the boy asks.
āThatās . . . I . . . I canāt remember, Noahnoah. It was so long ago . . . I think . . .ā
He falls silent, hesitates, and searches for something in his pockets.
āYou havenāt given me a map and a compass today, nothing to count on, I donāt know how Iām meant to find the way home, Grandpa,ā Noah whispers.
āIām afraid those things wonāt help us here, Noahnoah.ā
āWhere are we, Grandpa?ā
Then Grandpa starts to cry, silently and tearlessly, so that his grandson wonāt realize.
āItās hard to explain, Noahnoah. Itās so incredibly, incredibly hard to explain.ā
The girl is standing in front of him and smells like hyacinths, like sheās never been anywhere else. Her hair is old but the wind in it is new, and he still remembers what it felt like to fall in love; thatās the last memory to abandon him. Falling in love with her meant having no room in his own body. That was why he danced.
āWe had too little time,ā he says.
She shakes her head.
āWe had an eternity. Children and grandchildren.ā
āI only had you for the blink of an eye,ā he says.
She laughs.
āYou had me an entire lifetime. All of mine.ā
āThat wasnāt enough.ā
She kisses his wrist; her chin rests in his fingers.
āNo.ā
They walk slowly along a road he thinks he has walked before, not remembering where it leads. His hand is wrapped safely around hers and theyāre sixteen again, no shaking fingers, no aching hearts. His chest tells him he could run to the horizon, but one breath passes and his lungs wonāt obey him anymore. She stops, waits patiently beneath the weight of his arm, and sheās old now, like the day before she left him. He whispers into her eyelid:
āI donāt know how to explain it to Noah.ā
āI know,ā she says and her breath sings against his neck.
āHeās so big now, I wish you could see him.ā
āI do, I do.ā
āI miss you, my love.ā
āIām still with you, darling difficult you.ā
āBut only in my memories now. Only here.ā
āThat doesnāt matter. This was always my favorite part of you.ā
āIāve filled the square. It got smaller overnight again.ā
āI know, I know.ā
Then she dabs his forehead with a soft handkerchief, making small red circles bloom on the material, and she admonishes him:
āYouāre bleeding; you need to be careful when you get into the boat.ā
He closes his eyes.
āWhat do I say to Noah? How do I explain that Iām going to be leaving him even before I die?ā
She takes his jaw in her hands and kisses him.
āDarlin...