My grandparents came to Providence last weekend. Truth is, I was scared to see them. On Saturday, they had said they would drive through on Sunday, so I cleared my schedule to be with them. 

When I'm at home, they live next door, so I see them almost daily. Yet, each day they seem slightly different: their voices slower, their hair thinner, their smiles larger but with less reason. The years delight and age them. The last time I saw them was summer—if one day makes a world of difference, what about September? And what about my grandparents, the faces I have missed for weeks? 

I was not sure where they were coming from. I just knew they were heading home. I rode my bike to meet them downtown. I had no idea if they came out of their way to meet me in this hillside, brick-red city. I wondered about the length they came to see me and the hour they saved to forfeit—they built their lives on sacrifice so they should never have to wait, yet they still remain so patient. I biked as fast as I could. I knew they would be there before me.

What does family do when the youngest hosts the oldest, and he learns to hold their hands? My grandparents said we had one hour. Then, they would go back home.

If we only had one hour, how much of that time would I need simply to readjust to their faces, more creased than when I saw them last—how much time would they need to refocus on mine? I feared that us getting to know the people we had become would eat up our whole hour.

I hurried down Williams Street, pedaling at near-flight speeds. The moment I saw the coffee shop, my grandmother was visible too. She waved a wave I recognized from movies: My love is coming home! But never had I imagined that my grandmother would do it to me.

The hill's momentum was enough to carry me all the way to our home. I braked fast before my grandmother, careful not to cross her shadow, as fragile as her frame. How long had the past month been for her to shrink to the height of my torso? When she said hello, I shrunk a little too.

Every time I see my grandmother, I know how much older I seem. I know I am much closer to being a stranger than the last time I saw her. I know I haven’t thought of her or called her as much as I should have. But for her, it is enough. Biking five minutes when she had driven many miles was enough. And when I saw her, I felt the youngest I had ever been.

I looked at her eyes and followed her gaze to the café's floor-to-ceiling window, past barstools and pastries, and to the line and my grandfather's age-spotted, balding head. Good grief, she said. He's been in there a while.

She went to stand on the street corner, watching the bikes speed by, their riders wearing shorts and shirts, stretching summer past its prime. The lengths that people go to stretch a finite time! September was over with, and my grandmother knew it but said nothing; she looks at my grandfather and says nothing. She only smiles.

When I walked inside, I heard my grandfather arguing with the barista. I ordered a croissant, but he called it a scone. I said it was not, but it was funny of him to joke. He asked whether I thought I was in Paris or Providence. At least, I think he knew we were in Providence. He often says one thing when it really is the other. He leaves us wondering.

They asked if Providence is liberal. They asked if I have a boyfriend. They asked if I am studying too hard or going out too often or enjoying this incredible city of which they have only seen a side street.

They recalled a time when they were going to move here. But they have forgotten why. How mysterious our relatives become when they're old, when their most valued memories are fading. Do we, the young, have lives to live or the lives of others to hold? 

We finished our coffees and stood up to go; they wanted to see the river. My grandmother was anxious about time: our hour was halfway up. But she held the hand of my grandfather, as they followed my steps in my shadow. We traced the edges of the river. 

They stopped at every statue; they glossed over all the plaques. At every spot where the light looked different, we rested for a breath.  

Somewhere around the block along the east bank of the river, our conversation moved from asking questions to discussing plans. And in mentioning the future, we made it all of ours, which made time ours too, as it hadn’t been at the start. The time of reintroducing ourselves gave way to spending time. I knew them once again.

But as it happens with completion, the feeling of being whole, something falls out of place that was too much for the world to hold. My grandmother checked her watch, her smile bearing a new, heavy weight, about to fold. They were so delighted to have come. I felt exactly the same. It cost nothing to clear my schedule; it cost nothing to bike five blocks; it only cost an hour that would have just been one of mine. 

Then, we walked back over. The weather was so nice. The leaves were changing day by day, and falling faster to the streets. I mounted my bike to go; they found their car to leave. I must have looked so young to them, to have my own city.