I looked toward her.
"You worked hard."
She smiled proudly.
"Grandma said I was ready."
I nodded.
"You certainly were."
The girl looked toward the patch on my vest.
Then asked, "Will you wear it tomorrow?"
My throat tightened.
"Yes."
"And next week?"
"Yes."
She considered.
Then looked at me carefully.
"What if you're angry?"
I closed my eyes for a moment.
The question had followed her mother's instructions directly.
She wanted to know whether I'd remove it again.
I looked into her eyes.
"I won't take it off because I'm angry."
She studied me.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
The grandmother watched.
For a moment, she seemed relieved.
But she didn't smile yet.
She was still deciding whether my words meant anything.
And she was right to wait.
Words had always come easily to me.
Keeping them was where I'd failed.
When we finished lunch, the grandmother told me she had a few more documents at home.
She asked whether I'd be willing to meet her the following morning.
I agreed immediately.
Then she looked toward the girl.
"Sweetheart, why don't you get your backpack ready?"
The child nodded.
She gathered her notebook.
Then looked toward me.
"Are you going away?"
I felt a sudden ache.
I wanted to tell her I'd stay forever.
That I'd move into their lives and become the grandfather she'd never known.
But I remembered my daughter's letter.
Don't make promises you can't keep.
So I answered honestly.
"I'm staying at a motel nearby tonight."
The girl looked thoughtful.
"Will you come tomorrow?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
She looked toward the grandmother.
Then back at me.
"At nine?"
I smiled.
"At nine."
She held up her little finger.
"Promise?"
I stared.
Then slowly extended mine.
We linked pinkies.
"Promise."
The child's face brightened.
Then she gathered her backpack.
As they prepared to leave, she turned toward me one final time.
"Can I call you Grandpa?"
My heart seemed to stop.
The grandmother looked toward her.
Then toward me.
I swallowed.
"You can call me whatever feels right to you."
The little girl considered.
Then smiled.
"Okay, Grandpa Biker."
I laughed.
And then I cried again.
The grandmother gently guided her toward the door.
I watched them cross the parking lot.
The girl climbed into the old pickup.
Then waved through the window.
I raised my hand.
She waved harder.
I waved back.
The truck disappeared down Route 66.