The call reached me from down the long hallway. The sounds of scuffling slippers grew louder and, a moment later, Granddaughter's curly head peeked around the edge of the kitchen doorway.
'What are you doing, Grandpa?' she asked.
'Coffee,' I replied, peering in her direction over the rim of my glasses.
'Mornin' coffee.'
'Oh,' she said, standing in the doorway.
Her eyes focused on the scene beyond the kitchen window. The broad fronds of palm trees close by outside waved about furiously in the brisk November wind. There are no palm trees in the city where Granddaughter lives, and having arrived late the previous evening she had not seen the ones near our home.
Granddaughter stared. Dashing past me to the window, she placed her hands on the sill, and jumped to see out.
'When you visit us next year,' I said, 'you will be taller, and see over the sill without jumping.'
'I want to see now,' she demanded, reaching up. 'Pick me up, Grandpa.'
With Granddaughter seated on my forearm and her arms wrapped around my neck, we stared through the window. The palm nearest the window bent before a gust and straightened. The fronds of two palms across the driveway thrashed atop long, graceful trunks that leaned, straightened, and yielded again to the boisterous wind.
'Grandpa,' Granddaughter said, turning to look at me, 'tell me a story that has palm trees in it.'