Down in the bottom of that coffee can were dozens of little treasures only a seven-year-old would think belonged together.
A handful of shiny rocks. A fishing lure with the hook taken off. Two old pennies. A photograph of him and Grandpa sitting on the tailgate of the truck. And folded right in the middle was a piece of notebook paper covered in crooked handwriting.
I looked at Caleb and asked what all of it was.
He said, “Grandpa liked these.”
That was it. Simple as that.
We sat in the truck for a minute while he explained each item. The rocks came from the creek where Grandpa used to take him looking for crawdads. The pennies were ones Grandpa let him keep after checking the dates. The lure came out of Grandpa’s tackle box. Every single thing in that can had a story attached to it. The paper was a list Caleb had made after the funeral because he was afraid he’d forget. Not Grandpa’s birthday or where he was buried. The little things. The things that made Grandpa Grandpa.
Then he pointed at the photograph. “I don’t want him to be lonely.”
I had to look out the windshield for a second after that. Adults spend so much time explaining death to children that we forget how children understand it. Caleb wasn’t thinking about heaven or theology. He was worried about his grandfather being alone.
We walked up to the grave together. Caleb knelt down and carefully emptied the can beside the headstone. Not all of it. Just the rocks and one penny. Then he tucked the list under his arm and put the photograph back in the can.
On the way home I asked why he kept that one.
He looked at me like the answer should have been obvious.
“Because that’s mine.”
The can sits on a shelf in his room now. Last week I saw him take it down and show it to his little sister. One treasure at a time, he told her the stories.
And for an hour, Grandpa was right there with them.