A Lake, a Sandwich, and Something More
Grandpa never wanted a grand send-off. “Just a sandwich, a folding chair, and a quiet lake,” he said with a half-smile before his surgery. So that’s exactly what we gave him—a day that felt like nothing, but meant everything.
We met at his favorite lake, the one with the creaky dock and the lazy geese. We brought greasy diner sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, unfolded our chairs, and let the silence do most of the talking. Grandpa looked the same—steady hands, eyes like still water, full of memory. We fished. We laughed. We told stories that didn’t need punchlines.
As the sun began to dip, casting gold across the water, he turned to me and said, “I want you to remember this. Right here. This is what matters.” It landed heavy—because we all knew what tomorrow held. Or thought we did.
The hospital called the next morning. A complication. My heart sank as I sped through traffic, bracing for goodbye. But when I walked into his room, there he was—grinning, raspy-voiced: “Looks like I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
He recovered, but something changed. In him. In me. Time stretched differently after that. Slower. Fuller. Now, years later, I take my kids to that same lake. Not just for fishing, but to sit still, breathe deep, and be. Because the moments that sneak up on you—the simple ones—are the ones that stay.
