At Least They're Committed

You were standing in the booth at Old Chicago next to your grandpa. We were all talking, including you. You liked the light! Oh, and the neon baseball sign. And in addition to your chicken tenders and fruit, you had great fun reaching into your grandpa’s calzone and pulling out sausage and cheese and downing them as your grandpa playfully said, “Hey! What? Hey!” But suddenly, as I was talking, you looked at me and froze, your smile fell away, your eyes grew wide — you were frightened. You stared at me and stepped back and started to cry and pushed your way in closer to your grandfather. I kept saying, “It’s OK, it’s me, it’s OK!” You buried your head into your grandpa’s shoulder, keeping one dark brown eye warily fixed on me. You were terrified, and to my horror you had tears in your eyes, real, adult tears. You’ve cried when you’ve bumped or when you’re tired or angry or when you got your first haircut, but never were there tears. I was mortified. Seconds later, you seemed to recognize me and went back to your playful mischief. But I’m haunted. Was it me? What did you see? Was it something around me? Behind me? It’s an hour past my bedtime, but I can’t sleep. What was it, Dez? What did you see?