Chi Is Ready

The other night I watched a film in which one character said something that has stayed with me ever since.

"It is a misconception that time flies.

It is not time that flies.

It is breath."

Those words have followed me ever since.

Especially after losing my father.

Especially after losing Brian.

Time remains.

We don't.

It is our breath that quietly leaves us.

One after another.

Never to return.

Since hearing those words, I've been noticing things I never noticed before.

My granddaughter, Penelope, is eight years old.

She'll be nine soon.

She doesn't call me Grandpa.

She calls me "Chi."

When she was a baby, I used to make her laugh by pretending to sneeze.

Instead of "achoo," I'd exaggerate it.

"Ahh...Chi!"

Before she could even speak, she'd point at me and say, "Chi."

Asking me to do it again.

The name never left.

Neither did the laughter.

My grandson, Boe, is seventeen now.

He'll be a senior this year.

Yesterday, it seems, he was crawling across the floor after we moved into our little house.

He couldn't say "Grandpa."

So I became "Bampa."

Eventually...

"Bampita."

My little grandpa.

I'm not little.

But the tenderness inside that name is.

The other day, Penelope came knocking on my bedroom door.

"Chi..."

She wanted me to play.

She wanted to tell me about her dreams.

About joining Folklórico.

About the pictures she had been drawing.

I had a long day at work.

I was tired.

So I told her,

"Maybe later."

She quietly walked away.

A few minutes passed.

Then something inside me broke.

Not because I had done something terrible.

Because I suddenly saw something I had never seen before.

One day...

she won't come knocking anymore.

One day she won't see me through "Chi" eyes.

She'll have her own life.

Her own friends.

Her own dreams.

She won't wait for me to admire every little thing she creates.

Not because she'll love me less.

Because she'll be growing.

And that's exactly what I want for her.

I got up and searched for her like a madman.

When I found her, I wrapped my arms around her.

I told her I wanted to play.

I asked her to tell me a story.

I wanted to hear about her dreams.

Her wishes.

Anything.

She talked.

I listened.

As though every word mattered.

I wasn't trying to get time back.

I still had her.

That's what overwhelmed me.

She was still here.

Our breaths were still meeting.

How many moments have I mistaken for interruptions...

when they were really invitations?

Maybe that's what grief has been trying to teach me.

Not to spend so much time looking at the people I've lost...

that I fail to truly see the people who are still here.

Today...

she still comes looking for Chi.

Today she still wants to tell me about her dreams.

Today she still wants me to admire her drawings.

Today...

she is still here.

So if Penelope comes knocking tomorrow...

I already know my answer.

"Come in.

Chi is ready."

Alextotle ❤️‍🔥