“You don’t like the sound of ticking clocks.”
We listened to the twelve chimes as we sat at the kitchen table. Midnight.
I thought about how no one else knows that about me. Only my grandpa has known me since I was born and cares enough to remember that ticking clocks bother me.
He started talking about dying. And I remembered the other reason I don’t like ticking clocks, other than the noise.
“I don’t think heaven is mansions and streets paved with gold. I just don’t think it is.”
“I don’t know.”
And I don’t know. And I can’t think about it — death, life, all of it. It’s too much.
And then he told me he wished that he and my grandma could just lay down and put their arms around each other and fade away together. And I didn’t have anything at all I could say about that.