She pulled one last handful of breadcrumbs from the paper bag and tossed it to the ducks floating near the edge of the pond. Then she sat next to her grandfather on the park bench, grabbed her sketch pad, and finished a drawing of the ducks she had been working on.
“When we get home,” she said, “I want to draw some more. I made up a game I want to play with you and mom.”
“OK. What game?”
She touched her finger to his cheek and sketched an imaginary line down to his chin. “I draw a picture, and we mold a clay figure of it.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
She ran her finger from his chin to the tip his nose and left her finger there. “Why are they so mean to each other, grandpa?”
“Because they get confused and unhappy. Don’t worry about it. Things will get better.”
She poked her finger in his ear. “Do they hate each other?”
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the ducks. After a while, he said, “Let’s drive to the marina. You can draw the fishermen. I’ll get us some fish and chips.”
She hugged his arm tightly and asked, “Grandpa, will Daddy leave us?”
“No. Now let’s get going before we lose the sunlight on the bay.”
They stood up and walked to the car hand in hand. As he opened the door, she said, “I’m going to draw a picture of Daddy. Then I’ll mold him in clay.”
“That’s one way to keep him around,” he said. They hopped in the car and headed off to dinner.
