Mom kissed the air above my head.
“Just until Sunday.”
Dad carried my suitcase to the porch and told Grandpa they needed time to get things straightened out.
Grandpa looked at the suitcase.
Then at me.
It was much too full for a weekend.
He didn’t say that in front of me.
Instead, he crouched until his knees cracked.
“Well, Birdie,” he said, “you’d better help me.
I’ve bought far too many strawberries.”
For years I believed those strawberries had been a coincidence.
Much later, I understood that he had seen the packed suitcase and gone looking for something a frightened child could bear to think about.
On Sunday, I wore my boots until bedtime.
On Monday, I sat beside the window.
On Tuesday, Grandpa called my parents thirteen times.
I knew the number because I counted each time he returned the telephone to its cradle.
By Friday, I had stopped asking when they were coming.
