The Stranger

I know something is amiss as my feet hit the floor Sunday morning. I look around, I am not alone - it is quiet, too quiet. I rub my eyes and forehead, unable to fully wake. I hear footsteps and then the grandson bolts through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I can say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He lies back, giggling, his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seize the opportunity to lie back on the bed, wrap my arm around him with a big squeeze. I just want to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the little one are priceless. “Rush?” He whispers unequivocally and look at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I explain while feeling dryness in my throat. I feel a lump as I swallow. I feel like coughing but somehow avoid it. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with math and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispers facts or highlights from his week with his mother, it is the highlight of my week. I feel blessed to have these moments. “What is wrong with your head?” He sits up, watching me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, and I need some tea to start the day, maybe with some honey.” It was a small lie, or I think so, as my head pounds. I can close my eyes and count my heart rate with the throbbing. I am not sure if the hot tea will help, but it sounds good. Besides, this is how our Sunday morning talks end. I feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking. He bounces from bed, grabs my hand and I follow, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I start the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joins and takes over. I shake a couple Tylenol from the bottle (in the back of my mind, I remember all the covid posts on the Web saying avoid ibuprofen), chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger taking over. I lower my increasingly achey body into a chair at the table as the little one finds a seat directly across from me. I smile while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sits a cup of tea in front of me while rubbing my shoulders. I mumble something incoherent while shaking my head yes. As I sip the tea (it does feel good on my throat), I wonder if I should isolate - it begins with a sore throat, right? “You don’t look good.” She leans on the kitchen island while eyeing me suspiciously. Thirty years together means a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.” "Pop pop, is Godzilla bigger than King Kong?" The smile flashes in my direction from the other end of the table as he scoops up oatmeal. "Of course, he is the King of the monsters." This is not the first time I have been asked this, I know the answer because he is obsessed with Godzilla. I carry my cup and slowly return to bed.