The Pyramid of Days

The morning sunlight caught the crystal glass on my bedside table, where my daily vitamins sat like colorful jewels—orange C, white D, and that stubborn B-complex Arthur used to take. After eight years, I still arrange his pill beside mine. Some habits become rituals.

Outside, summer lightning flickered across the sky, silent and distant. Arthur always said lightning strikes twice in the same place—if you're lucky enough to find somewhere worth returning to. We met during a thunderstorm in 1957, both ducking into the same diner for cover. He bought me a cherry Coke and told me I looked like a movie star. I was wearing my waitress uniform.

"Nana?" My granddaughter Sophie stood in the doorway, holding her tablet. "Are you taking your vitamin?"

"Every morning, sweetheart. Just like Papa insisted."

She climbed onto the bed, studying my pill organizer. "You know, scientists say vitamins aren't as important as eating real food. There's a whole food pyramid now—" she paused, showing me her screen, "—but it's not like the old one."

I laughed. "Your grandfather and I lived through about six different food pyramids. First butter was bad, then margarine was worse. Eggs were evil, then they were superfoods. We just kept cooking what tasted good."

Sophie snuggled closer. "But you take care of yourself. That's what matters."

Another flash of lightning illuminated the room, and for a moment, I saw Arthur's old hat on the hook by the door. His wisdom had been simple: take your vitamins, kiss your wife, and never miss a chance to watch a thunderstorm.

"Your grandfather built something like a pyramid," I told Sophie. "Not with stones, but with days stacked on days. Each morning he took his vitamin, each evening he held my hand. The small things, done consistently, become something monumental."

Sophie wrapped her arms around me. "That's your pyramid too, Nana. All those mornings, all those vitamins, all that love."

I swallowed my pill and watched the storm roll across the sky. The lightning would pass, but what we build together—that remains.