Dialogue

I saved him a seat on an exceptional Sunday, the first Sunday of 2026.

It isn’t usually allowed on weekends, but I told the café staff he was important—almost ninety.

At least, he is important to me.

He arrived with a black cane, no gloves. It was –1°C.

It’s not that hard to spot him. He was the only man with hair as white as snow and a big smile.

At first, we stayed with small talk.

He knew me only as the young girl from the meetings since last August, always smiling, friendly to everyone.

Before sitting down, he said he would have a beautiful view once he took the seat.

He sat across from me.

He did not hold my gaze for long.

Hands on the table.

We spoke in Flemish Dutch.

A shiny, asymmetrical wedding ring stayed on the ring finger of his right hand.

Each time he spoke, it returned to my sight.

He asked me, gently, why I had chosen him.

I told him I first knew his presence through his prayers at the meetings.

That I often saw him sitting in his familiar seat.

That I no longer have grandparents, and if they were still alive, they would be his age.

That he is kind to everyone, and I believed I could learn a lot from him.

I told him I love fluffy pancakes here,

and I like deep conversations,

even though I am young.

We talked for six hours.

Mostly he spoke.

He showed me his life in pictures and videos.

He could not hide his frustration while dealing with technology, small letters without his reading glasses.

He shared his life, his marriage of sixty-six years, and his beloved wife who has been gone for a long time.

He shed a tear.

Later, I shared my life too.

How I see the world and everything’s around it.

From that moment on, everything changed.

Time slowed,

and we stopped paying attention to what was around us.

We listened instead to our thoughts and to our spiritual life.

The conversation opened,

and so did we.

We sat in the café as people came and went.

The sun was with us at the beginning,

then slipped behind the clouds.

By the time it was gone, it was dark.

We were there from lunch until it was time for dinner.

Neither of us expected it to last this long.

I thought it would be an hour, or maybe two.

It ended only when the staff came to tell us they would close in a few minutes.

That was the first time he checked his watch on his left wrist.

At the end, I asked him to rate the pancakes, the coffee, and me.

The pancakes were a 9.5.

The coffee an 8.6.

I was a 9.92—because perfection belonged only to his wife.

He told me I was strong, like his Americano.

That it had been a long time since he spoke this way with someone young.

That he did not expect me to be 35 this year, like I did not expect him to be 89 this year, too.

That he was grateful for having him.

That this moment mattered.

To me, he is my grandpa.

To him, I am his youngest grandchild.

I did not say this aloud,

but I thanked Jehovah for every minute I spent with him.

I told him he matters to me.

I meant every word.