Diet Pepsi

	Mom’s voice is quiet on the other end of the line, so I know something is wrong. She tells me that Grandpa is in the hospital. I call my brothers to tell them. They ask if they should drive down to Grandmother’s house like we all did when Uncle died and we didn’t know what else to do. I tell them no. All we can do is wait. I hang up the phone, our conversations truncated by a lack of clear answers. It’s probably his heart again. But for now, it’s a guessing game. My mind runs with all the things I haven’t gotten a chance to say to my grandfather, missed Thanksgivings, chit-chat squandered by Grampa’s bad ear and my stuttered voice, the times he sent me kind-hearted messages and I replied only with a heart emoji. Lost memories find their way back to the forefront of my brain, a cranially orbit to give Grampa his time in the sun. His eclipse plays like an old film reel projection, and I sit in my car idly, waiting for another phone call, watching snippets of our time spent together.
	Grandpa used to feed me mayo sandwiches. It was his childhood snack of choice. Mayo, pepper, bread without the crust. Add a tomato if you’re feeling crazy. He’d pour a glass of chocolate milk for me, and he would open a can of diet Pepsi for himself. Always diet. Always Pepsi. It was simple and easy, and Grandpa liked simple and easy. I wanted to be like Grandpa, so I liked simple and easy. I liked mayo sandwiches. 
	Grandpa always drove around with the windows down, gospel music scratching through the speakers of his “hunk-of-junk” minivan. He’d sing along under his breath, a smile spread ear to ear across his face. He’d pick me up from my first part-time job, just as the sun was dimming, and I’d ride home with my head resting against the window. I would fall asleep to the lull of his humming. Sometimes he’d spend our car rides telling me elaborate stories about his childhood, about how he vanquished bullies with soft-spoken negotiation or a good, swift punch to the jaw. Grandpa loves to talk. Grandmother says she can’t take him anywhere without him making a few friends. I’ve always been endeared to his gentle whimsy and good-natured optimism. 
	The last time I saw Grandpa, he drove me home from work while my car was in the shop. It was no longer our usual arrangement, but it felt just the same as it did before. Grandpa blabbered on about his car’s dying engine, the worsening pain in his back, the upcoming raise in his rent. 
	“Oh well.” He sighed. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” It’s one of Grandpa’s favorite sayings. I’ve heard him say it a multitude of times, a card trick pulled to ease my grandmother from her worrying. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Simple, and he says it with such soft confidence that it still comes to mind when I get anxious. It plays over in my mind now, a little ditty to accompany my vignette of memories. 
	Hours pass before he calls us from the hospital. He is tired, but in a chipper spirit. He tells us the doctors say he had a heart attack. There’s a possibility that he will have another one, but he reassures us not to worry. He says to look on the brighter side- the nurse gave him a diet Pepsi. 
	I call my brothers to give them the update. We are thankful for the momentary relief, but we know we are not out of the woods just yet. I go for a walk to try to relax my mind. I let the lukewarm November sun fasten itself to my reddened face, and I watch the clouds drift across the gray-tinted sky. I think about how Grandpa would want me to find joy in the small things- a sunny day in November, a soft melody, the crispness of a cold diet Pepsi. I follow the path from my house to where the newly paved bridge overlooks the marshland. I climb over the guardrail and lean my back up against the railing. Still reassured by Grandpa’s voice, I watch the sun shimmer off the thinning ice.