Gone is the time when I looked forward to a young man arriving at the doorstep for a date. Now, I’m anxious for the arrival of a 7-year-old boy and hours of Uno and giggles.
Sure enough, 90 minutes into my grandson’s visit, the score is Madre 540, genius boy 35.
The winner is the one with the lowest score.
This kid is killing me, particularly as he rubs his hands before each new game and says gleefully, “The cards just love me, Madre,” with a shrug and a wink.
Finally, tired of winning, he asks, “Can we bake cookies now?” With a sigh of relief, I dash to the kitchen. As I select the ingredients, he pulls over the kitchen chair and claims his rightful ownership to the beater.
I measure the sugar, soften the butter, and he begins to beat with measured concentration, tongue sticking out slightly, nodding his head silently when it’s okay to add the flour.
Whirrr, Whirrr, Whirrrr, the beater goes until suddenly, with no warning, young grandson stops the electric whisk, turns toward me as he stands on the chair, widens his eyes, and asks in a straightforward manner:
“Madre, when we die, do we come back to life again?”
I’m so shocked by the question that I pinch myself, not wanting him to see my surprise.
My grandson, normally a kid so active even his eyes twitch, stands stock still, staring at me, waiting for a real answer.
“And what do they say?” he wonders out loud.
I start blabbing about dead leaves turning into the earth to help new flowers bloom, blah blah blah, and he interrupts with a bit of impatience and informs me:
“I know I was alive 1,000 years ago.”
I continue pinching as I wait for a proper response to miraculously flow from my mouth.
Nothing comes forth.
But that’s okay, because grandson explains:
“I just decided to come back now. You know, seven years ago. It was the right time.”
Then he picks up the beater and whirs the batter back to life.