My mother often told me, “Don’t sit on Grandpa’s lap.” I never understood why. One day, I didn’t listen to her and sat down anyway. Grandpa smiled, leaned close to my ear, and whispered, “Can you come sleep beside me tonight?”

He complained that everyone was treating him like he was fragile.

Mom told him,

“You had heart surgery.”

Grandpa replied,

“I still have a perfectly good opinion.”

That became our family joke.

---

Eighteen years have passed.

I’m no longer nine.

I’m no longer the little girl who thought adults knew everything.

I’m an adult now.

Mom has silver strands in her hair.

Grandpa has even more.

His steps are slower.

His hands shake sometimes.

But his smile hasn’t changed.

And every year, on the same night, I go back to that little porch.

We put two mattresses on the floor.

Sometimes Mom joins us.

Sometimes she falls asleep before the first meteor.

Grandpa always complains about her snoring.

Mom always denies it.

And I always bring the expensive chocolate he used to hide in the refrigerator.

One year, I brought three bars.

Grandpa looked at them.

“Only three?”

I laughed.

“You’re lucky I brought any.”

He smiled.

Then he looked toward the telescope.

The first shooting star appeared.

He turned toward me.

And even after all these years, he asks the same question.

“So…”

He pauses dramatically.

“Are you staying beside me tonight?”

I smile.

“Of course.”

From the kitchen, Mom immediately shouts,