Photo by Michal Mancewicz, Unsplash

The night is falling down around us. Meteors rain like fireworks, quick rips in the seam of the dark… Every second, another streak of silver glows: parentheses, exclamation points, commas – a whole grammar made of light, for words too hard to speak. –Jodi Picoult, My Sisters’ Keeper

It’s 10:38, and I’ve just opened my Kindle to read in bed when my phone buzzes. It’s a FaceTime call from my grandson, Griffin. When I answer, he says, “Oh sorry, Grandma, I didn’t know you’d be in bed yet.” I assure him that I’ve just started to read when, a bit breathless, he blurts, “Do you want to come over on the deck and watch for meteors with me?”

I throw on some clothes, grab a blanket and flashlight, and make my way over to his house where he’s lying on a yoga mat, eyes fixed on the night sky. His dogs announce my arrival as I make my way up the deck stairs. He pats the mat to his right, inviting me to take my assigned position beside him. And we lie there, a whole grammar made of light above us, the night is falling down around us. For a few perfect moments, we take it all in: the silence, the starlit sky, the companionship.

And then his bright words percolate through the dark. He’s teaching me all he knows about the Milky Way, the speed of light, the night sky. With the patience of a good teacher, he warns me not to be fooled by the flashing lights of planes. You might think it’s a meteor, he cautions, but look closely for the three blinking lights. As he spots small meteors, he turns to me, hopeful. Did you see it, Grandma? Chastened, I admit that I didn’t. How can he see these small flashes? How can he, a boy who struggles to sit still for more than 60 seconds, remain so vigilant? Still, he continues his narration of interesting celestial facts as he encourages me to keep moving my eyes around the sky.

I feel him put his hand on my forearm and turn to see him pointing toward the northern sky. There, he motions, did you see it? I’m disappointing him. I’m disappointing myself. After 10 minutes of sky-watching, I haven’t seen a single meteor. But just as I’m ready to confess my failure, we both gasp as a meteor streaks across the west. I saw it! I say, That was awesome! He’s smiling as he admits that this was an even bigger one than he’d seen the night before. I’m smiling because I can see how happy he is that his tutelage has been successful.

We lie there in a post-game reverie, recounting the moment we both saw the meteor, declaring its beauty, and sharing our great joy. Above, the Milky Way stretches a filmy trail, a plane bisects our view, and pair of bats swoops perilously low. Bats! Griffin says. We giggle and pull our blankets over our heads. Emerging to find more bats flitting above us, he announces that he’s ready to call it a night.

As I walk the 100 yards home to my house, I navigate the familiar terrain with my face turned to the sky. But I don’t see another meteor. And it doesn’t matter. I shared one with Griffin, and this was more than enough.

Days later, I’ve been thinking about the shared moments my grandson and I’ve had. Earlier this summer as we were feeding the fish in our pond, we witnessed our favorite Koi swimming so closely to the edge that we might’ve reached out to touch them. They’ve been notoriously coy (forgive the bad pun!), hiding out in the shadowy eastern corner where it’s almost impossible to see them. On this night, however, flashing their fan tails and brilliant colors, they swam leisurely back and forth along the bank. Having just thrown the last handfuls of food into the pond, we turned to each other, smiling. That was awesome! he exclaimed. We could see them so clearly! It was Diesel and Angel-–oh, and Pumpkin swam by once, too! I nodded. Griffin has named all the Koi, and only we can identify them by name. I hope we see Camo next time, he said. He’s old and might not be around for long. In the June twilight, we walked back from the pond together without talking. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking, that, at 69, I might not be around for long.

I hoped he wasn’t, but I remembered a stormy night months before when we’d lost power. I called my daughter to see if they needed extra flashlights, volunteering to bring some over. In the background, I heard Griffin say, Don’t let her come over, Mom. She’s old, and we need her to survive. I chuckled and remarked, I don’t think my survival is at stake! But at 10, he did.

Recently, I’ve recognized how he’s assumed the role of caretaker. Last night he asked if I was o.k. to drive our sport utility vehicle home. I can back it up for you, he offered. When I assured him that I’d be fine, he watched me back out of his driveway and head for home. Like an anxious parent, he watched until he could no longer see me before he turned to go inside.

Lately, when I pitch the whiffle ball to him, he’s taken to walking into the outfield with me as I retrieve his balls. Sometimes he stoops to pick up the ball and hand it to me; other times, he just accompanies me as I retrieve it. In part, he does this out of gratitude that I’m willing to pitch and retrieve his balls. But in part, I fear he does this because he sees that I’m walking–not running–to field balls, that he knows I’m no spring chicken. Sometimes as we walk together, we talk about baseball; most often, however, we just walk in companionable silence, content just to be together. Between us, there is a whole grammar made of light where no words are necessary.

Last night, he wanted to drive me around in our sport utility vehicle. There is one particular stretch of gravel drive that invites speed. Instructing me to watch the speedometer as he sped up the hill, he pushed the accelerator. As he slowed at the top of the drive (he’s actually a really good–and safe–driver), he turned to me expectantly. 22 mph, I said. Grinning, he said, I just love this, don’t you? When I hit the gas, you’ll always see a smile that comes so eagerly to my face. I smiled and thought: What 11-year-old says uses adverbs like “eagerly”? He’s amazing, truly amazing.

At the risk of sounding corny and cliched, these moments are priceless. I’m painfully aware that Griffin is at the cusp of adolescence, a period during which he’ll undoubtedly want to spend time most of his time with peers–not his grandma. Perhaps it’s this awareness that sweetens our shared moments. These moments are meteors which flash brightly–and quickly. They are the exclamation points that punctuate my life.