going shopping seemed more like a minefield than a joy. It was a reminder of what I didn’t—and couldn’t—have. Once upon a time, I had enjoyed window-shopping. Now, it often felt like a punishment, an inaccessible carrot dangling maliciously in front of me.
I must have sighed out loud without realizing it.
“Why so blue?” Grandpa asked, suddenly pulling me back to the present.
I shook my head, not wanting to tell him what I was thinking or feeling. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was wallowing in self-pity or somehow angling for him to buy me something. We were out, two adults exploring a whole new world; and I didn’t want him to feel like that didn’t mean something to me.
“I can tell something’s bothering you, but I’m not going to make you talk.” He kept his eyes trained ahead, the bookstore in his line of vision. “You want to talk, you just say so. I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. I reached out and slipped my hand in his as I matched my stride to his to catch up a bit. “You too. Anytime you want to talk—about anything—I’m here. I have two good ears for listening.”
“Me, too,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before turning his face to me. “See?” he asked with a mischievous wink. He grinned, and I noticed the slight movement of his ears, back and forth, back and forth, in a subtle wiggle waggle that he had always delighted in showing off to all of his grandchildren as we watched in childish wonder. Part of the magic of Grandpa—an irreplaceable element of what made him different from everyone else’s grandpa.
Peter Samuelson had magical ears.
Chapter Eight
The morning passed in an easy melting of hours. We drifted along together, separating to make our solo voyages from corner to corner of the bookstore, each missionless in our missions. And that was truly the point. We had random points of rendezvous as we traversed the sales floor, checking occasionally with one another to decide if we wanted more time or if either of us was ready to leave. We made our way through a stream of stores this way, happily floating along in a comfortable bubble of silence, tossing in an observation here and there, a random thought or memory adding color to the landscape as we passed.
And then, there it was—rising up before us like a beacon.
The glittering storefront of Victoria’s Secret.
To say the magnetic pull was undeniable would have been an understatement. It was like being sucked into a vortex. My feet propelled me forward in a steady march, seemingly of their own accord.
“If you want to go in, I’ll go just down a bit to that sports store.”
I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had stopped dead in front of the store’s big window, with its proud display of sleekly simple mannequins decked out in alluring lace underthings and satiny smooth slips—cheerfully thwarting the lines of modesty, even in their lack of detail.
Not only had I stopped there in my tracks, but I’d been staring, slack-jawed and transfixed like a bug with the zapper in its sights.
Dellie
.
The mannequins seemed to whisper.
“What?” I said, not sure whether I was really talking to the mannequins or my grandfather, who now stood next to me on the sidewalk, his eyes boring into me as he waited for me to answer.
“Do you want to go in?” he repeated, not unkindly.
My eyes widened in horror.
I was standing in front of a lingerie store. With my grandfather.
“Um,” I stuttered, not sure whether I wanted to admit to the fact that I really did want to go in. After all, what sane woman wants their
grandpa
to know that they wear Victoria’s Secret?
It was almost too much.
He chuckled. “It’s okay. Your Grammie used to like to go there for lotions. They smell nice, but I always let her go in by herself.”
I nodded enthusiastically, like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Yes, lotion. Very, very nice lotion,” I said
I must have sighed out loud without realizing it.
“Why so blue?” Grandpa asked, suddenly pulling me back to the present.
I shook my head, not wanting to tell him what I was thinking or feeling. The last thing I wanted was for him to think I was wallowing in self-pity or somehow angling for him to buy me something. We were out, two adults exploring a whole new world; and I didn’t want him to feel like that didn’t mean something to me.
“I can tell something’s bothering you, but I’m not going to make you talk.” He kept his eyes trained ahead, the bookstore in his line of vision. “You want to talk, you just say so. I’ll listen.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said, mentally breathing a sigh of relief. I reached out and slipped my hand in his as I matched my stride to his to catch up a bit. “You too. Anytime you want to talk—about anything—I’m here. I have two good ears for listening.”
“Me, too,” he said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze before turning his face to me. “See?” he asked with a mischievous wink. He grinned, and I noticed the slight movement of his ears, back and forth, back and forth, in a subtle wiggle waggle that he had always delighted in showing off to all of his grandchildren as we watched in childish wonder. Part of the magic of Grandpa—an irreplaceable element of what made him different from everyone else’s grandpa.
Peter Samuelson had magical ears.
Chapter Eight
The morning passed in an easy melting of hours. We drifted along together, separating to make our solo voyages from corner to corner of the bookstore, each missionless in our missions. And that was truly the point. We had random points of rendezvous as we traversed the sales floor, checking occasionally with one another to decide if we wanted more time or if either of us was ready to leave. We made our way through a stream of stores this way, happily floating along in a comfortable bubble of silence, tossing in an observation here and there, a random thought or memory adding color to the landscape as we passed.
And then, there it was—rising up before us like a beacon.
The glittering storefront of Victoria’s Secret.
To say the magnetic pull was undeniable would have been an understatement. It was like being sucked into a vortex. My feet propelled me forward in a steady march, seemingly of their own accord.
“If you want to go in, I’ll go just down a bit to that sports store.”
I snapped my mouth shut, realizing I had stopped dead in front of the store’s big window, with its proud display of sleekly simple mannequins decked out in alluring lace underthings and satiny smooth slips—cheerfully thwarting the lines of modesty, even in their lack of detail.
Not only had I stopped there in my tracks, but I’d been staring, slack-jawed and transfixed like a bug with the zapper in its sights.
Dellie
.
The mannequins seemed to whisper.
“What?” I said, not sure whether I was really talking to the mannequins or my grandfather, who now stood next to me on the sidewalk, his eyes boring into me as he waited for me to answer.
“Do you want to go in?” he repeated, not unkindly.
My eyes widened in horror.
I was standing in front of a lingerie store. With my grandfather.
“Um,” I stuttered, not sure whether I wanted to admit to the fact that I really did want to go in. After all, what sane woman wants their
grandpa
to know that they wear Victoria’s Secret?
It was almost too much.
He chuckled. “It’s okay. Your Grammie used to like to go there for lotions. They smell nice, but I always let her go in by herself.”
I nodded enthusiastically, like a bobble head on a dashboard. “Yes, lotion. Very, very nice lotion,” I said
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