A week ago, I went out driving. It was late at night, it had been raining and I was depressed. There was no one I had I could talk to, and I just felt all of this weight pressing down on me. I needed something, but at the time I couldn't, for the life of me, tell you what.

I passed the store and then hung a u-turn and came back. "1 HR." it said, "$6.99." I thought to myself why not, then went in.

The proprietor was a small bald man with round glasses. I could see his eyes swimming behind the thick lenses. He looked me up and down and then asked if he could help me.

I said yes–tell me why you charge $6.99 for an hour. There's a place downtown that would give you two hours for that price.

He told me that it takes two hours in another establishment to equal one in his.

I have to admit: I thought he was full of shit, but like I said, it was late, I was messed up in the head, and besides, the place downtown didn't stay open this late.

Okay, I said. One hour.

He asked me what hour I wanted. I told him.

"I want an hour with my grandfather."

"Before the Alzheimer's took him from you," he said. It was not a question. Nor did I feel the need to ask him how he knew. I simply nodded, and he motioned for me to follow.

At the end of the hallway, there was a non-descript door. He left me standing in front of it, and after a full minute I turned the knob, opened the door and stepped inside.

I was on my grandparents' front lawn, back when the house was still theirs. The people that bought it from us afterward chopped down my favorite tree in the front yard to clear the frontal view of the house, but it was still there like it had never left.

And there too was my grandfather, standing tall, ankle deep in leaves and raking. Before he was lost to us, he was always outside working. And here he was again.

And he was there. I mean really there. He looked up, saw me and knew who I was. He called me by name, something that I could not remember the last time that had happened. Before the end and after the beginning of the end, I was always my father, his brother, a war buddy and then later a stranger.

He put down his rake and gave me a hug. We sat down on the front porch steps like we used to when I was a boy. He remembered that I was married. He asked after my family. I told him everything. I asked his advice, and he gave it to me: honest to a fault and direct, all of it.

It was exactly what I needed to hear. And to see. And to feel.

As the hour drew to a close, the wind picked up. My grandfather looked to the sky and said how it looked like rain. He needed to get the leaves finished up. I told him I would let him get back to it, grateful that I could make a graceful exit–the place downtown would stop when your time was up, wherever you were.

I got another hug for the road and walked back towards the door. As my fingers touched the knob, I turned and looked back. I took a long look, letting the image of him, whole and working, replace the one of his closed coffin, of the choked cry that had escaped me when the soldiers had handed my uncomprehending grandmother a folded flag.

I memorized everything…and then I stepped out of the room.

There was a small hand towel that had been left on a chair by the door. I took it, sat in the chair, covered my face with the towel and wept. The weight was settling back in place and I had escaped nothing. I sobbed for a few minutes, then dried my eyes and went up to the front of the store.

The bald man asked me if my hour was satisfactory. I told him that yes, it was.

He asked if I accomplished what I needed to do. I thought about it and decided yes, I had. There was weight, yes, but I felt more centered, calmer, in control.

I paid the bill along with a nice tip and got back in my car. And then I drove home. And for the first time in months, I believe I actually slept well.

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