When I was much younger, which is a polite way of saying, “nearly five decades ago”, we went to my grandparents’ farm.
We got there at dusk.
I don’t know how far we had traveled. I can’t remember how old I was, so I can’t remember where we lived. It could have been a couple hours, up from New Hope. It could have been all day, from Carol Stream.
My grandpa led me to the field. He picked sweet corn, two or three ears. My grandma got the water boiling. I sat at the kitchen table, eating sweet corn. Nothing else. No one else.
He was pretty quiet, my Swedish grandpa. I never doubted that he loved me. Not after giving me my heart’s desire that night.
Who know you love them, that clearly?