And volunteers directed guests toward tables where they could learn about the charitable work being supported.
The old Route 66 sign glowed above the entrance.
For a moment, I stopped beside my motorcycle.
I looked toward the diner windows.
Then remembered the letter arriving at my mailbox.
The nine-hundred-mile ride.
The empty patch.
And the little girl who climbed into my booth without asking.
Bishop stepped beside me.
“You okay?”
I took a breath.
“Yeah.”
He nodded.
Then looked toward the entrance.
“Somebody's waiting.”
I followed his eyes.
Rosie stood near the diner doors in her yellow raincoat.
Evelyn was beside her, smiling.
The little girl spotted me.
Then ran.
“GRANDPA!”
I opened my arms.
She threw herself against me.
I held her tightly.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
She pulled back.
Then inspected my vest.
Her eyes moved immediately toward the patch.
I smiled.
“Still there.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
For a moment, we looked at each other.
Then Rosie took my hand.
“Come on.”
I laughed.
“Where are we going?”
“To the booth.”
My chest tightened.
“The same one?”
She nodded.
“Lou saved it.”
I followed her inside.
The diner looked almost exactly as it had on the day we met.
Red leather booths.
White Formica tables.
Chrome edges.
A jukebox near the wall.
And the familiar smell of coffee, pancakes, and fried potatoes.
Lou stood behind the counter.
He smiled when he saw me.
“Gravel.”
I nodded.
“Lou.”
He looked toward Rosie.
Then grinned.
“Your assistant mechanic is back.”
Rosie laughed.
“I'm better at sewing than him.”
Lou smiled.
“I've heard.”
We walked toward the booth.
The same one.
Near the window.
Where my granddaughter had placed the needle through my vest and returned the word I'd believed I no longer deserved.
I sat down.
Rosie climbed into the seat beside me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I looked toward her.
“Do you remember the first time we sat here?”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“What were you thinking?”
She considered.
Then smiled.
“That you looked scary.”
I laughed.
“Fair enough.”
She continued.
“And that I hoped you wouldn't get mad.”
My chest tightened.
“Because of the patch?”
She nodded.
“Mom said you might not want to wear it.”
I looked down.
For a moment, I remembered the empty place.
The years.
The guilt.
Then I looked toward Rosie.
“Sweetheart, wearing that patch is one of the best things that's happened to me.”
She smiled.
Then became quiet.
For several seconds, she stared toward the table.
Finally, she asked.
“Do you still miss Mom?”
I nodded.
“Every day.”
“Does it still hurt?”
I considered.
“Yes.”