He was coming home.
Grade Nine, if I had the history and timing right.
In three months, he’d write his first short story.
In a year, he’d start his first novel.
Published at nineteen.
Nobel prize at sixty.
By that time, I was seven and sitting in his office,looking at all the books and
the ancient iMac G3 that he wrote his books on.
Him, a doting Grandfather, me a kid with an interest in sci-fi,especially stories about time travel.
Ironic that we both created our legacies in that room.