Lindsey loaded her kids into the car every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning, packed a few snacks, and drove her grandma to dialysis. It became a ritual, one stitched together with love and repetition. Her grandma, now eighty-seven, sat quietly in the passenger seat, wrapped in a soft cardigan, humming faintly to the radio. The ride was never long, but it felt sacred, a small space carved out of time where love existed in its simplest form.
Her grandma had been doing dialysis for a while now, three times a week, four hours at a time. The toll on her body was obvious, but so was her strength. She smiled through exhaustion, joked with the nurses, and never once complained, even when Lindsey could see the tiredness in her eyes. Lindsey often wished she could take that burden away, wished her grandma didn’t have to fight this quiet, steady battle.
Her grandpa, on the other hand, was ninety. He had been driving Grandma to her appointments for years, but when his license expired and his memory began to fade, it was time for Lindsey to step in. She didn’t mind. If anything, it made her feel useful, like she could finally give something back to the people who had given her everything. Now, while Grandma sat in the clinic hooked up to the dialysis machine, Lindsey, her children, and Grandpa went on little adventures to fill the hours. It became their routine, one of laughter, coffee cups, and playground sand.
First, they would grab lunch somewhere simple. Grandpa was fond of diner burgers and bottomless coffee, and he always ordered dessert, no matter what time of day it was. Afterward, they would explore. Some days, it was the park, other times, the museum, or even the McDonald’s Play Place. The kids adored Grandpa, and Grandpa loved them right back.
He wasn’t content to sit on the sidelines either. Ninety years old and still climbing into the Play Place, sliding down the plastic tunnel slides while the kids and other parents laughed. Lindsey couldn’t help but smile every time he landed at the bottom, grinning ear to ear like a boy again. He swung on the swings, raced the grandkids to the car, and told stories that made no sense but always ended in laughter.
Sometimes, the adventures were quieter. They’d drive around town, and Grandpa would point out the old ice cream shop he used to own, his eyes lighting up with pride. He’d tell stories about the “olden days,” about how he and Grandma met and built a home out of love and grit. Lindsey listened closely, trying to memorize every detail before time could erase them. Her kids loved hearing those stories too, though half the time they didn’t quite understand them. But they didn’t have to. It was the feeling that mattered, the sound of Grandpa’s laugh, the warmth of his hand when he held theirs, the way he still called Grandma “my girl.”
At the end of each day, Lindsey took pictures. She photographed Grandpa sipping coffee at the donut shop while her daughter, just three years old, sat across from him, drinking milk from a bottle. Two souls separated by nearly nine decades, chatting like old friends. That image, she thought, captured everything she wanted her children to remember, what love looks like stretched across generations.
They’d pick Grandma up and show her the photos when dialysis ended. Grandma would smile, sometimes laugh, sometimes tear up. “Looks like you all had fun without me,” she teased. Grandpa would chuckle too, even though he might not remember what they did the next day. His memory came and went now, flickering like an old lightbulb. “It’s hard,” Lindsey admitted once. “Watching him forget.” But then he’d say something funny, like, “You’ll understand when you’re ninety,” the heaviness would lift for a while. What amazed her most was their attitude. Her grandparents had weathered storms, sickness, aging, and forgetfulness, but they still looked at life optimistically. They still chose joy.
Lindsey knew these days wouldn’t last forever. The drives to dialysis, the playground races, the coffee breaks, even the photos, one day, they would become memories. But for now, they were a gift—a quiet reminder that love doesn’t have to be grand or dramatic to matter. Sometimes, it’s found in the front seat of a car, a wrinkled hand reaching for yours, and a promise to keep showing up, three times a week, as long as you can.
