If you surrendered to the air, you could ride it. –Toni Morrison

I could hear the four-wheeler rumbling up the drive before I could see it. But I didn’t have to see it to know that my grandson would be flying up the lane, a serious wake of gravel behind him, the whole summer day before him. He pulled up to the porch with inches to spare, dismounted, and flung open the door.

I’ll take you for a ride around the pond, Grandma. He was bare-chested and wearing two different kinds of socks. And so I threw the remaining inches of my coffee down the sink, rinsed my cup, and followed him out the front door. As I swung my leg over the seat and settled in behind him, I remembered how beetles had ravaged the elm trees that surrounded the pond and how a forest of stumps now hid in the knee-high weeds there. I could see it all then: the front wheel catching a stump, the air-born assault, the crash. I tightened my grip around his waist and wondered whether or not it would just be better to close my eyes for the duration of the ride.

I’d seen him take corners, learning into the air as if it could hold him, as if he could bend gravity to his will. Yes, better not to see what’s coming, I thought. Better to hold my breath. Better to send up a silent prayer before we leave the lane. When wild honeysuckle wafted across our path, I knew we were leaving the road and would momentarily descend to the grass around the pond. This was it, I thought. This could be the beginning of the end.

Yet as we rounded the northeast corner of the pond, we slowed considerably. I opened my eyes to see Griffin searching the ground with laser intensity, his eyes working to uncover each hidden stump. And then he was moving among the stumps with skill and certainty, with love.

We’re not going to wreck, Grandma. I know what I’m doing. His back glistened with sweat, and I felt myself exhaling, my arms loosening to my sides, and my face turning to the sun as he drove the remainder of the way around the pond. When he pulled up in front of his house, he turned to me and smiled. Good ride? he asked. Great ride, I said.

For most of us, there are moments when we realize that we’re just along for the ride. We’re no longer piloting our own ships. We’re no longer large and in charge. We’ve become passengers and hold supporting roles. Age, change, and circumstances have intervened, and we become those taken care of instead of those who care for. What a bittersweet transition this often is. We remember days when the very people upon whom we now depend were those we diapered and fed, clothed and cheered. We remember the responsibilities we shouldered and the expectations we met.

My four-wheeler ride wasn’t the first time my grandson had assumed a caretaker role. Last spring during a particularly stormy evening when the power went off, I called my daugher to see if I could bring them a couple of LED lanterns, a 50-yard trip from door to door. In the background, I could hear my grandson insisting that I not come, telling his mother that she’s old and we need her to survive this. Sweet–and funny, to be sure–but words that gave me pause. The fact that he recognized I was old and that he feared for my survival made me feel at once precious and vulnerable, as though I could truly blow away in the storm. Outwardly, I chuckled. Inwardly, I sighed.

I still bandage his skinned knees and wrap him in dry towels when he gets out of the pool. I still know things that occasionally amaze him and stock good snacks. In short, I’m still captain of the ship–for a time. In the end, however, all of it–the care-taking and the being taken care of–is truly a great ride.