My grandfather loaded up the boat with our fishing gear, and we went out on the lake.
“The lights in the sky are real,” he said.
“They’re stars,” I said. “They’re planes. They’re helicopters.”
“No,” he said. “The other ones.”
And he’d offer his flask, and I’d just drink my coffee.
And we never caught any fish.
Years later, I took the boat out on the lake.
I had his flask with me, and drank a toast to him.
Up in the sky, I saw the lights.
They weren’t stars. Or planes. Or helicopters.
And they got brighter. And brighter.