Sun & Spoon by Kevin Henkes Page A

rushing at Pa.
    â€œMy, my,” said Pa, sizing it up. He offered the box to Joanie.
    Joanie placed the box on the table and tore open the cardboard flaps. The box contained scones, Danish pastries, and sugary cinnamon buns.
    Spoon eyed one of the cinnamon buns. It was as big and round as a grapefruit.
    â€œI’m going to walk to the cemetery,” Pa was saying. “To tidy up Martha’s grave after yesterday’s storm. I wondered if Joanie and Spoon wanted to join me.” Pa swung around to face his grandchildren. “Think about it while you eat.”
    Everyone sat and selected something from the box.
    As he poked at his cinnamon bun, Spoon wondered about Gram’s cards. Had Pa seen them? If so, what did he think? Is that why he seemed happy? Would he ever mention them again?
    Just then, as if he were clairvoyant, Pa said to Scott and Kay, “Oh, by the way, I found those playing cards I had been looking for.”
    Spoon felt a tickle at the back of his throat.
    â€œGood,” said Scott. “Where were they?”
    Pa had chosen a pale scone studded with dates. He picked at one of the dates. “Oh, it doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Dumb mistake on my part.”
    Spoon’s stomach growled for a long moment. “Excuse me,” he said loudly. He ate his cinnamon bun as if he hadn’t been fed in days. And then he had his bowl of Cap’n Crunch and a glass of grape juice.
    â€œSo who’s coming with me?” Pa inquired when breakfast was done.
    â€œI am,” said Spoon.
    Joanie was afraid of the cemetery, and so she said no, timidly, and stayed home.
    â€œJoanie should have come with us,” said Spoon. “She’d love all the bones.”
    â€œYes,” said Pa.
    Debris was all around. Styrofoam cups from fast-food restaurants were caught in shrubs. Sheets of newspaper were pressed to the fence. Small American flags had been ripped from their thin wooden poles and were draped haphazardly across monuments. And then there were the natural things—branches, twigs, leaves, and flower petals; they dotted the soft hills like a pattern on fabric.
    â€œLet’s see how Martha’s geraniums fared,” said Pa.
    â€œThere it is,” said Spoon, pointing to Gram’s low, unadorned gravestone.
    The rectangle of sod that marked Gram’s grave had not completely blended in with the surrounding grass yet. The sod sat high like a plush throw rug. Spoon knew that the empty plot next to Gram’s was waiting for Pa. An eerie thought.
    â€œNot bad,” observed Pa, referring to the geraniums. “They’re hardy.”
    There was only one broken stem. Pa snapped it off and twirled it between his fingers. Petals fell to the ground, a cloudburst of red. Then Pa sniffed his fingers. “Geraniums,” Pa told Spoon, “were Martha’s—Gram’s—favorite flower, because, she said, they smelled of the earth. She liked the way the smell lingered on her hands after she had been working with them in the garden. Red ones, she liked red ones best.”
    They plucked things and brushed things aside until Gram’s grave was spotless, except for the red geranium petals.
    â€œThey look nice,” said Spoon.
    Pa tapped the gravestone, then rested his hand on it for a moment before letting his fingers slide off. He rose to leave. “I’d like to tell you something,” Pa said.
    â€œWhat?” Spoon rose, too, and fell into stride with his grandfather.
    â€œI was going to tell your parents, but I didn’t know how receptive they’d be.”
    Spoon blinked.
    â€œChildren tend to understand these things. And old people,” said Pa. He paused. “I guess I should start at the beginning. . . .”
    Pa explained to Spoon how he had played solitaire with Gram’s special deck of cards on the nights he couldn’t sleep. “I felt closer to her then,” said Pa.