She used to sit on her Grandpa’s knee and he’d hold her so tight like she was the only person in the world that ever mattered.
Whatever the payment was to get on his knee, tears or frowns, when she was up there she felt safe.
Nothing could ever hurt her there.
She would run her hand through his thick white hair and giggle at the little bumps on his head.
“Old age,” he’d say.
“They’re stones under the snow. Grandpa,” then she’d laugh ‘till it hurt.
Although she grew and married and had children, whenever anything was bothering her she’d go to where her Grandpa rested and talk awhile and she’d feel things were good again.
One Christmas, as she knelt on the ground, the snow came down and covered her Grandpa’s grave.
Her Grandson, who had been waiting, came to see what was wrong, she said “Why nothing’s wrong, honey, I’m just looking at the stones under the snow.”
And as he walked back down the hill, he could hear his Grandma laughing out loud as if she was hurting.
bobby stevenson 2013