He watched the ripples roll across his calves and thought, “How much like days.”

His pants were rolled up to his knees and the bottoms were cold and wet. He didn’t remember his pants getting wet, but apparently it didn’t matter; his memory couldn’t change what was.

All around, children laughed and sunlight played. There were splashes and birdsong; sounds of summer. “If ice-cream had a voice,” he thought, “_It would sound like today.”_

He watched the ripples flow in endless succession. They rolled past whether he paid attention or not.

“Grandpa?” a small voice said. He blinked, and smiled.

“Yeah?”

“What are you looking at?”

He turned and looked down into eyes he knew from the mirror. “So much like me,” he thought. “I have the chance, every moment in every day, to be more than what’s inside this bald skull.”

“I’m watching my toes,” he said.

The boy raised an eyebrow, an expression his face had yet to grown into.

“Why?” asked the boy.

“Because,” he said. “They’ve got to turn into raisins soon.”

The boy’s eyebrow dropped, his eyes narrowed.

“Big pink raisins,” he said. “Then, when they’re in the sun, they’ll shrink and turn brown.” He smiled down, felt the sunshine on his neck and the ripples against his skin. “Haven’t you ever wondered where raisins come from?”

“I don’t like raisins,” said the boy.

“Me neither,” he said. “Let’s go get some ice-cream.”