Birthday Number Ninety.

I am talking to a stranger. His eyes are silver-lined with age.
"You have to promise me something, you've got to call your grandfather zeyde from now on," he tells me. "He'll like it. It's a term of endearment and he deserves it."
I promise him I will. To prove it I step outside into the rain which gets caught in my throat as I say goodbye to my zeyde, who laughs.