Ten, Eleven, Twelve

"Ten, eleven, twelve," she said, "That's today."

"Um, not exactly," I said with a perplexed look on my face.

"1910, November the 12th. Year, month, day: that's how your grandfather always said it," Mom explained.

"Ah, except it's not nineteen-ten."

"That was his birthday. It's not hard to do the math..."

I got it before she finished her thought. "He would've been 100 today."

She teared up and turned her attention to a shelf of knickknacks in front of her as we stood in HomeGoods. I placed my hand on her back and rubbed it back and forth for a moment. My eyes started to water, more a physiological empathy (one that frustrates me because it is difficult to subdue) than a resurgence of grief for the just over 10 year old loss.

Just then, Dad pointed out a kind of creepy, toothy snowman on the top shelf that made both Mom and I laugh. The spell was broken and we went back to browsing.