I was taking my Kiz out for her afternoon walk. It was the kind of bright, blue Saturday afternoons Mesa is famous for so I wasn’t surprised to see my 10-year-old grandson, Ender, hanging out with his friends (an unruly lot to be sure.) When he noticed me and Kiz, his face lit up. All elbows and knees, he ran over to us and enthusiastically showered hugs and kisses upon my obviously delighted dog. He stood up and thrust the Nerf gun was carrying into my face, extolling its many attachments and doo-dads in breathless sentences that flew by like one impossibly long word. I smiled and nodded where appropriate, but I couldn’t help but notice him periodically glancing over to the group of unkempt ruffians from whence he’d come. He was anxious to get to them, I saw. After a minute, I let him off the hook and told him to go back to his friends. He jumped up and ran off in a cloud of smoke and a quick wave, shouting, “Wait up!” to the group of urchins. They’d be up to shenanigans soon enough, I knew.
I had to pass them to get home and when I did, I started to raise my hand in greeting but they were already deeply engaged in a lively discussion centered on the defensive capabilities of their Nerf arsenal in the face of a zombie horde. An old dude with a little dog couldn’t compete with that. Also, I remembered that boys Ender’s age are amazingly easy to embarrass so I just kept walking. I don’t think he even saw me pass.
When we’d walked a short distance from them, I looked down at my Kiz.
“Well…” I said with a shrug.
“Yep,” she replied, not unkindly, “It’s you and me now, I guess.”
I thought about that a bit. I’ve been here a time or two; the moment when a kid’s attentions and priorities shift just a touch. Their world gets a little bigger and, inevitably, your place in it starts to shrink. Sometimes this occurs with a whispered slide, sometimes with a brittle snap. Either way, it leaves you just a little emptier, like it or not.
It’s bittersweet, I thought. It’s okay, natural even. It’s called change. Progress. Life. It’s the way things work all the time for everybody, and it’s supposed to be this way.
“Still sucks, though,” Kiz said, rubbing her little head against my leg.
“Yeah,” I said and I bent down to scratch behind her ears. She loves that.
Then, from behind us, I heard Ender calling, “Grandpa!” I turned and saw him standing a bit away from his friends, his hands cupped around his mouth. When he saw he had my attention he shouted something that I didn’t quite catch.
“What?” I shouted.
He took a deep breath and slowly, deliberately, called out, “Be careful!”
“Oh, shut up!” I hollered belligerently. He was waving as I turned around with a scowl. When I was sure he couldn’t see, I looked down at Kiz. She was smiling up at me the way dogs do.
“Not today,” I said.
“Yeah.” She grunted, “Hold that thought a sec.” And she crouched on shaky legs while hard, warm turds pushed their way out of her ass like brown, smelly children. They landed heavily on the grass, steaming on the morning dew.
“Still you and me, though, right?” she panted.
“Always!” I laughed, and we went home.