Although Los Angeles is one of those cities that never sleeps, this house, the house occupied with four people I love, is quiet as they sleep - my two grandchildren in one room - their parents in another.
After working on my novel for about an hour or so I found myself at one of those 'plot crossroads' and couldn't decide whether to bear left or right, so I lifted my fingers off the keys of my laptop, stood, then sat on the nearby sofa. Almost immediately a cry came from the kid's room and then shuffling footsteps approached.
Even in the darkness I knew it was my grandson and not his sister. As he exited his bedroom, for some reason he veered left, directly toward me instead of continuing into his parent's bedroom as was his norm.
My grandson crawled up onto my lap and fell limp and warm against my body. And there we remained for a half hour or more. Half asleep. Our eyes closed. Our chests rising and falling in sync. Our hearts beating as one.
Other people have vowed that he and I shall never meet again but not a day passes that I don't remember that morning and hope that when he grows up he will remember the old bald guy he used to call grandfather and that he too will remember that amazing morning when our hearts beat as one.
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