She sounded excited.
"Grandma says you're coming to my school!"
I laughed.
"Only if that's what you want."
She gasped.
"YES!"
Then she lowered her voice.
"But you can't wear the scary helmet."
I grinned.
"Why not?"
"Because my teacher might think you're a pirate."
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
"All right."
She continued.
"And you have to clap even if I forget my lines."
I smiled.
"Especially then."
She became quiet.
Then asked, "Do you promise?"
I looked toward the blue star.
Then answered.
"I promise."
And this time, I intended to be there before the doors opened.
I reached New Mexico the day before the school performance.
The grandmother picked me up from a small airport because she'd convinced me that riding nine hundred miles every time I wanted to visit was not a reasonable long-term plan.
She was right.
I didn't like admitting it.
But I was learning.
At seventy, she had a way of looking at me that made excuses feel useless.
During the drive, she told me about the child's school.
Her teacher.
Her friends.
And the excitement she'd felt when she learned I was coming.
Then she said something that made me quiet.
"She's started putting your calls on the calendar."
I looked toward her.
"What?"
The grandmother smiled.
"Every Sunday. She draws a little blue star beside four o'clock."
My throat tightened.
I looked through the windshield.
The desert stretched toward the horizon.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I asked, "Does she still worry I'll forget?"
The grandmother considered.
"Sometimes."
I nodded.
The older woman continued.
"But she's learning that if something changes, you'll tell her."
I swallowed.
"Good."
The grandmother looked toward me.
Then smiled faintly.
"You're getting there."
I laughed.
"At my age, that's about the best compliment I can hope for."
She laughed too.
When we arrived, my granddaughter was waiting on the porch.
Her pink raincoat hung from one shoulder.
Her hair was tied back.
And she held a sheet of paper covered in handwritten instructions.
She ran toward me.
Then stopped.
For a moment, she looked shy.
I smiled.
"Hey, sweetheart."
She grinned.
Then hugged me.
It was the first time she'd done that without asking or hesitating.
I remained still for a moment.
Then gently wrapped my arms around her.
She smelled like shampoo and crayons.
I closed my eyes.
For one impossible second, I remembered holding my daughter at that age.