Hearts in Retrograde

At first, Opa didn’t say anything. He took a sip of coffee. Spread butter on his warm biscuit. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and asked, “Has something happened?”

Nothing had happened. Nothing but growing up.

Anja doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know a life without her Opa. From the moment she came into the world—which Opa tells her was at a very young age, mind you—she’s most consistently been loved by him, consistently been able to reach for his hand and find an anchor. Through her parents’ divorce, navigating troubles of the heart, and learning how to let go of him to embrace a life unfolding before her, Opa doesn’t waver. He also doesn’t get any younger, and there are lessons—one, in particular—Anja’s realizing she must learn and carry on her own.

We think we have all this time. It’s like we count on it. But I realized we don’t. We don’t have it. This is how life is. Life is made up of a series of moments when we’re together. And then we have to part, so we say, ‘We’ll have more moments. I will see you soon.’ Except, Opa, we don’t know the timeframe of soon. So, I have to look at you, Opa—really take in your face and the laughter and the mannerisms I cherish so much—and I’ve had to make myself understand this: Nothing has happened. Nothing but growing up.