I did not want to go.

I had spent my entire life in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I had no interest in leaving. I had never been outside of my city, certainly not to a different state. 

I had to go to Maine for the month of July. It was all the way across the country.

Mom was sending me to live with my grandfather after my grandmother died. I had only met my grandfather once when I was a baby.

"You'll love it," Mom said, "and you’ll get to see the ocean."

Grandpa was in the Navy. He loved the sea.

When he came home, he moved from New Mexico to Maine. Maine was where he met Grandma.

Grandpa lived in a town called Bristol, right on the water. I spent my time before the trip online, looking at photos of Bristol.

Pictures of rocky beaches and lighthouses and trees came up. It looked beautiful, but it was so far away.

My plane landed in Portland. Grandpa was standing by his car. He was wearing blue jeans and a checkered shirt. 

We said “hello” and drove north toward his home. A photo of him and Grandma was taped to the rearview mirror. In the picture they were holding me.

On the way to Bristol, Grandpa told me about what we would do. I could go swimming or hiking. I could look for birds or walk to a lighthouse. 

I told him I was most excited to see the ocean.

“Good choice,” Grandpa said.

Grandpa’s house was small. He had a woodstove to cook with, a bedroom for him, a cot for me, and two big chairs. 

Grandpa began to make us both sandwiches. I unpacked my bag. I was taking out my journal when I backed into a shelf, knocking it over.

Grandpa rushed over. I said I was sorry and sat down on my cot. 

Grandpa knelt down and put books and boxes where they belonged. He saved the picture frame with broken glass for last. He put the bits of glass into the trash and grabbed the frame. 

Grandpa stared quietly at the photo for five minutes. It was him and Grandma on their wedding day.

“I didn’t mean to break anything,” I told him.

“I know,” he said.