told her, not stopping. “I’m in excellent health.” Then he climbed up the ladder to the diving board, looking stronger and stronger the higher he climbed.
He didn’t look over at me before he jumped; he went right in, and before he broke through the surface of the water I was on my feet, walking across the hot wet cement to the high-dive ladder, the soles of my feet and my pride both on fire.
And I jumped.
“You’re thinking of the pool, aren’t you?” he asks me now.
“Yes,” I say, laughing a little. “You didn’t keep me safe then. You practically dared me to leap to my death,” and then I cringe, because I didn’t mean to say that word. I don’t know why I’m afraid of it. Grandfather isn’t. The Society isn’t. I shouldn’t be.
Grandfather doesn’t seem to notice. “You were ready to jump,” he says. “You just weren’t sure of it yet.”
We both fall silent, remembering. I try not to look at the timepiece on the wall. I have to leave soon so I can make curfew, but I don’t want Grandfather to think that I am marking the minutes. Marking time until our visit is over. Marking time until his life is over. Although, if you think about it, I am marking time for my own life, too. Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.
Grandfather senses my distraction and asks me what is on my mind. I tell him, because I won’t have many more chances to do so, and he reaches out and grips my hand. “I’m glad to give you part of my life,” he says, and it is such a nice thing to say and he says it so kindly that I say it back. Even though he is almost eighty, even though his body seemed frail earlier, his grip feels strong, and again I feel sad.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” I say to Grandfather. “I signed up for hiking as my summer leisure activity.”
He looks pleased. “They’ve brought that back?” Grandfather used to hike as one of his leisure activities years ago, and he’s talked about it ever since.
“It’s new this summer. I’ve never seen it offered before.”
“I wonder who the instructor is,” he says, thoughtfully. Then he looks out the window. “I wonder where they’ll take you to hike.” I follow his gaze again. There isn’t much wildness out there, though we have plenty of greenspace—parks and recreation fields. “Maybe to one of the larger recreation areas,” I say.
“Maybe to the Hill,” he says, the light returning to his eyes.
The Hill is the last place in the City that has been left forested and wild. I can see it now, its prickly green back rising out of the Arboretum where my mother works. It was once mostly used for Army training, but since most of the Army has been moved to the Outer Provinces, there isn’t as much need for it anymore.
“Do you think so?” I ask, excited. “I’ve never been there before. I mean, I’ve been to the Arboretum lots of times, of course, but I’ve never had permission to go on the Hill.”
“You’ll love it if they let you hike the Hill,” Grandfather says, his face animated. “There’s something about climbing to the highest point you can see, and there’s no one clearing a path for you, no simulator. Everything’s real—”
“Do you really think they’ll let us hike there?” I ask. His enthusiasm is contagious.
“I hope so.” Grandfather gazes out the window in the direction of the Arboretum, and I wonder if the reason he spends so much time looking out lately is because he likes to remember what he carries within.
It is as though he can read my mind. “I’m nothing but an old man sitting here thinking about his memories, aren’t I?”
I smile. “There’s nothing wrong with doing that.” In fact, at the end of a life, it’s encouraged.
“That’s not exactly what I’m doing,” Grandfather said.
“Oh?”
“I’m thinking .” Again, he knows my thoughts. “It’s not the same as remembering. Remembering is
He didn’t look over at me before he jumped; he went right in, and before he broke through the surface of the water I was on my feet, walking across the hot wet cement to the high-dive ladder, the soles of my feet and my pride both on fire.
And I jumped.
“You’re thinking of the pool, aren’t you?” he asks me now.
“Yes,” I say, laughing a little. “You didn’t keep me safe then. You practically dared me to leap to my death,” and then I cringe, because I didn’t mean to say that word. I don’t know why I’m afraid of it. Grandfather isn’t. The Society isn’t. I shouldn’t be.
Grandfather doesn’t seem to notice. “You were ready to jump,” he says. “You just weren’t sure of it yet.”
We both fall silent, remembering. I try not to look at the timepiece on the wall. I have to leave soon so I can make curfew, but I don’t want Grandfather to think that I am marking the minutes. Marking time until our visit is over. Marking time until his life is over. Although, if you think about it, I am marking time for my own life, too. Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.
Grandfather senses my distraction and asks me what is on my mind. I tell him, because I won’t have many more chances to do so, and he reaches out and grips my hand. “I’m glad to give you part of my life,” he says, and it is such a nice thing to say and he says it so kindly that I say it back. Even though he is almost eighty, even though his body seemed frail earlier, his grip feels strong, and again I feel sad.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” I say to Grandfather. “I signed up for hiking as my summer leisure activity.”
He looks pleased. “They’ve brought that back?” Grandfather used to hike as one of his leisure activities years ago, and he’s talked about it ever since.
“It’s new this summer. I’ve never seen it offered before.”
“I wonder who the instructor is,” he says, thoughtfully. Then he looks out the window. “I wonder where they’ll take you to hike.” I follow his gaze again. There isn’t much wildness out there, though we have plenty of greenspace—parks and recreation fields. “Maybe to one of the larger recreation areas,” I say.
“Maybe to the Hill,” he says, the light returning to his eyes.
The Hill is the last place in the City that has been left forested and wild. I can see it now, its prickly green back rising out of the Arboretum where my mother works. It was once mostly used for Army training, but since most of the Army has been moved to the Outer Provinces, there isn’t as much need for it anymore.
“Do you think so?” I ask, excited. “I’ve never been there before. I mean, I’ve been to the Arboretum lots of times, of course, but I’ve never had permission to go on the Hill.”
“You’ll love it if they let you hike the Hill,” Grandfather says, his face animated. “There’s something about climbing to the highest point you can see, and there’s no one clearing a path for you, no simulator. Everything’s real—”
“Do you really think they’ll let us hike there?” I ask. His enthusiasm is contagious.
“I hope so.” Grandfather gazes out the window in the direction of the Arboretum, and I wonder if the reason he spends so much time looking out lately is because he likes to remember what he carries within.
It is as though he can read my mind. “I’m nothing but an old man sitting here thinking about his memories, aren’t I?”
I smile. “There’s nothing wrong with doing that.” In fact, at the end of a life, it’s encouraged.
“That’s not exactly what I’m doing,” Grandfather said.
“Oh?”
“I’m thinking .” Again, he knows my thoughts. “It’s not the same as remembering. Remembering is
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