The Moment They Held

The Moment They Held

         Pattering waves of rain coursed across the windshield obscuring the road Anne had never driven before. How could she live without him? Tears welled in her eyes, but the torrents of rain in her heart were the greatest cause of concern. She looked over at her grandfather as he was staring out the window and holding his hand over his heart, occasionally clutching his chest with a wince.

         Anne looked back at the road and wondered how they got here. It felt like only yesterday that she was helping him wash dishes while she struggled to see over the sink. He would look over at her and smile at her plight, then would bring a small chair from the dining room for her to stand on.

         Years had passed like that, all the while her need for the chair dwindling as she could soon stand next to him at the sink and gaze through the small window planted above it.

         Anne remembered the stories he would tell, while their hands, sleepy with trying to slow the quicksilver moment where they were together, unconsciously dried the dishes. He would tell of the places he had worked, like the factory where he had made car fenders from morning until night, seven days a week, his brow always dampened with his welcomed duty to provide for his family. Or of the things that stuck to his memory, like the first time he had seen his wife walk through a tall, grassy field in the lowest part of a sunny day. 

         Thinking of her late grandmother spurred her to press harder on the accelerator; she couldn’t lose him, too.

         “Slow down there, Annie. Won’t do us any good if we both die before we get to the hospital, now will it?” he said jestingly and placed his free hand on her arm.

         “I know, but we’ve got to hurry. What if you don’t—what if you don’t make it? I’m sorry, Grandpa, but I’ve got to drive a little faster than normal,” she said, feeling as if her speech were coming out like the rain, too fast and sloshed together.          

         She heard her grandfather sigh deeply and he moved his hand from her arm and back to his knee. “Well, now, Annie, sometimes fast isn’t always a good thing. Goin’ so fast you miss a lot of what’s around you,” he said and looked at her with a reflective smile. “Why don’t you slow down and pull over right there, by that hill comin’ up.”          

         “What? I’m not stopping! We’ve got to get to the hospital,” Anne said, near hysterics. 

         He looked at her with a tranquil smile. Anne then felt a sadness in her heart like none she’d ever felt before. She knew what he was doing: He was giving up.           

         “Annie, pull the car over. I want to show you something,” he continued in a firmer yet still kind voice, and she did as he said.          

         She put the car in park and looked at her grandfather. He was staring out the window with an expression that seemed close to wonder. Though, underneath it she saw acceptance. Acceptance that he knew they wouldn’t make it to the hospital in time. She felt them before they were actually there: tears, on the verge of falling and possibly never stopping.           

         Her grandfather turned back to her and noticed her crying. He took her hands in his and stared at them for a few seconds. “I remember when these hands were no bigger than the size of my thumbs,” he finally said with a raspy laugh. “Come outside with me for a minute, will you?”

         Anne looked at him dumbfounded for a second before she answered. “But it’s raining. You’ll catch your death of cold,” she said, too quickly before she could catch herself.

         He only smiled, then opened the door. The violent raindrops immediately engulfed him, blackening his navy button-up shirt. He closed the door and stood in the rain. Anne got out of the car quickly, thinking that he’d finally lost his mind and that she should get him back to the shelter of the car.

         When she walked over to him, she saw that he had water cupped in his hands. Anne looked at him in bewilderment as he smiled brightly at her.

         “Now, Annie, life is very much like the rain. Sometimes it comes down severely and fast, and at other times slow and gentle. But remember this,” he said as he held the water cupped in his hands closer to her, “if you just hold some, hold onto a moment . . . it can last forever.”

         Her grandfather looked up at the heavy, grey clouds and laughed. She couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

         They let the rain intoxicate them with freedom, freedom from death, from time, from every moment other than this one. Anne didn’t know, or even dare to judge, how long they stood there. Yet, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the lighthearted smile splayed across her dear grandfather’s face, and the rain, the moment, they held in their hands.