Chapter Three: Cole

2095:

 I glanced at Cole, his youthful features set in an expression of detached indifference. His eyes, distant and unfocused, made it painfully clear that my story wasn't landing the way I'd hoped. It stung, though I supposed I should have expected it. Some stories, no matter how vivid or meaningful to their tellers, are destined to resonate only within the hearts of those who carry them. Such is the solitary weight borne by those who wander the endless and lonely corridors of time and space.

 We are inherently vain creatures, driven more by self-interest than empathy unless something compels us to care. The vast majority are aware of the boundless suffering, pain, poverty, and injustice that permeate the world, yet few pause to truly confront it. We carry on, indifferent, until the tides of misfortune inevitably reach our own shores. Only then, in the throes of our own anguish, do we fervently pray and cling to the hope that the better side of humanity will rise to meet us.

 The world is aching with wounds that cry out for healing, a truth so vast it can quickly overwhelm any one person daring to confront it. No individual can mend every tear in the fabric of humanity, but anyone can choose a small piece and say, *This, I will make better.* Yet even those small efforts rarely stay confined. The act of healing one corner often reveals how deeply it connects to the rest, spilling into the broader tapestry of life. We are not isolated islands, no matter how much we might imagine ourselves to be. We are threads in an intricate web, bound together in ways we rarely stop to truly consider. 

I wasn't suffering at that moment, which perhaps made my story even tougher to sell to my innocent grandson. As I spoke, a dawning realization crept over me—I was more focused on what I wanted from life at that instant than on anything deeper. I was asking Cole to care about the fleeting, self-indulgent thoughts that occupied my mind, all while neglecting the concerns and curiosities that might be weighing on his. Perhaps if we met somewhere in the middle, amidst the tangle of our respective dramas, we might find the connection I so desperately sought.

 They always say that if you want to change the world, you must start with yourself. It's a simple truth, but profound in its implications. The one thing in life we truly have control over is ourselves—our actions, our thoughts, our responses. Attempting to control anything beyond that is a futile endeavor, like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands. Masters of religion and spirituality understand this well. They dedicate lifetimes to the pursuit of self-mastery, knowing that even this is no small feat. Self-control is not a destination but a constant, often arduous journey—one that shapes us, moment by moment, into who we truly are.

A re we meant to isolate ourselves from the world, retreating to some distant mountaintop to meditate on life's mysteries? It's a tempting notion, but as I stand here at the end of my journey, looking back at the path I've walked, I see the answer lies not in solitude but in balance. 

 Balance, I've learned, is the key to navigating this chaotic world. But it's not a one-size-fits-all solution—everyone's equilibrium is unique, shaped by their own circumstances, desires, and struggles. Finding that perfect blend, the right mix of what sustains and fulfills us, is a lifelong pursuit. 

 We stumble, succeed, fail, and adjust, refining the formula as we go. Yet by the time we finally start to grasp the elusive equations of life, the game inevitably draws to a close. Perhaps, though, it's not the final solution that matters, but the act of seeking it—the growth, the connections, the moments of clarity amidst the chaos. 

 I have great admiration for self-discipline and courage—they are the pillars that hold up so much of what we strive to achieve. Yet, I find that the most beautiful moments in life often come not from solitary effort, but from unity, from the times when people come together, even when they stand on opposing sides. 

 Cole may not be my polar opposite or my adversary, but he is different enough to challenge my perspective. Perhaps that's exactly what we need—a chance to weave something together. Through our shared actions, however small, we might craft a verse of humanity so genuine and heartfelt that it becomes a legacy for others to witness. In coming together, even in our differences, we might create something far greater than either of us could alone.

 I can see the symptoms afflicting my grandson as clearly as I see the rising sun, and I even know some of the remedies that might ease his troubles. But the truth is, only he can unlock the lessons hidden within his struggles. If I were to shield him from every fall, to smooth every obstacle in his path, I'd rob him of the very essence of living. 

 Love, in its most primal form, urges me to bear all his pain and strife for him, to make his journey easier. But then I ask myself—what kind of person would that leave behind? Would he have the strength to stand on his own when the day comes, all too soon, when I must leave these mortal shores? 

 Perhaps we are meant to see the beauty in suffering too, not for the pain itself, but for the transformation that follows. There's a profound grace in watching someone rise above their hardships, in witnessing how adversity shapes them into something stronger, wiser, and more resilient. In the end, maybe the gift I can give him is not a smoother road, but the quiet faith that he will find his way through the storms—and emerge all the better for it.

 Once again, it all comes back to balance. We can't simply stand by and let people drown in their seas of suffering. Yet, rushing in to save them from every wave can rob them of the strength they might gain by learning to swim. The key lies in knowing when to extend a helping hand and how to offer support that empowers rather than enables. 

 If everything is left to the individual alone, most will falter under the weight. That's why it's in our nature—and in our collective interest—to lend aid. But it must be thoughtful aid, given with care and purpose. Sometimes it's about holding someone steady long enough for them to regain their footing, or offering the tools they need to build their own lifeboat. 

 True compassion isn't about removing all struggles but about sharing enough strength to help others navigate them. It's the delicate art of being a guide, not a savior—offering support without stripping away the opportunity for growth.

 As I gazed at my grandson, I felt an urge to lay down a foundation, a bridge between us that might close the gap of understanding. Choosing my words carefully, I leaned forward. 

 "You know," I began, "when I was young, my face looked like that." 

 Cole frowned, his annoyance thinly veiled. "Looked like what?" 

 "A look that said I had trouble keeping things from spilling over the cups I was trying to fit them into," I replied, my tone light but deliberate. 

 His brow furrowed deeper as he caught my meaning. "Are you asking me if something's wrong?" 

 I gave a small nod, my voice soft but steady. "Well, yes." 

 There it was—an opening. A chance for him to decide whether to step across the bridge or remain on his side. I could only hope he'd see it for what it was: a quiet gesture, an invitation to share the burdens that I, too, once knew all too well.

 Cole glanced around, as if checking for an invisible audience, his feet shuffling nervously. He looked down, avoiding my eyes, and muttered, "No. I'm fine." 

 "Sure. If you say," I replied, a bit deflated, the words leaving my mouth before I could fully catch them. 

 What had I expected? That with one question, the floodgates would open and he'd spill everything? I remember the tightness in my chest, the awkwardness of sharing anything with parents or grandparents when I was his age. It's strange, isn't it? The people who are closest to us in every way—by blood, by history, by the care they've poured into us since birth—are often the very ones we resist getting close to. 

 There's a paradox in it, one I'd never fully understood until now. The ones who gave us life, shaped our worlds, are often the hardest to open up to. Maybe it's because they're too familiar, too entwined in our identity, that the idea of truly revealing ourselves feels like risking too much. Or perhaps, it's because we're still learning to trust ourselves, let alone anyone else.

 Isn't life itself a paradox, or maybe even a joke that none of us quite get? A creator with a dark sense of humor, setting up this endless game where we can't know good without first knowing evil, nor feel joy without experiencing pain. Everywhere we turn, opposites are entwined, each one needing the other to exist. 

 We often slide toward extremes, pulled by the force of one side or the other. But the further we stretch in one direction, the more difficult it becomes when the opposite inevitably enters our lives. It's a journey marked by struggle, tension, and often a feeling of being lost. Yet, in that distance between the extremes, we find the true measure of our growth. 

 And yet, if we aim for the middle—too cautious, too balanced, too content with stagnation—we may miss the pulse of life altogether. We might avoid the hardships, but we also miss the thrill of the ride, the exhilaration of facing challenges head-on and overcoming them. Life may be a hard journey, but perhaps it's the very difficulty of it that gives it meaning. The extremes shape us, give us the highs and lows that make the experience rich and full. Without them, we'd be nothing more than slugs, slowly inching through a flat, uneventful existence.

I wanted to push Cole past that invisible wall, to get him to open up to me. In a way, I selfishly longed for him to join me on an adventure—something that could pull him out of his own world and into something bigger, something shared. So, I poked and prodded, trying to find the right angle, something that would get him talking. I tried bringing up girls, but that didn't seem to be the issue.

 "Maybe we need a change of scenery," I suggested, baiting him. "Let's go for a walk. Get out of this stuffy old house. And if you don't mind me saying, some of the stuffy people in it."

 Cole huffed, his resistance clear, but after a moment, I could tell I had worn him down. 

 "Fine, Grandma," he muttered. 

 We snuck out through the front door while the others were still distracted with my trinkets. The air outside was fresher, and we made our way down the walking path to the woodland trail, slowly finding our stride. I couldn't help but bring the conversation back to my journal, to my idea of adventure. 

 "So, have you made up your mind yet?" 

 "About?" 

 "Going with me up north, having a bit of fun." 

 "You're still serious? No, we can't go." He shut down quickly. 

 "Why?" 

 "What do you mean why? Isn't it obvious? You're... going through what you're going through," he said, struggling to avoid saying the word "dying." "And I can't just leave. They'll think you kidnapped me. It'll scare them." 

 "So, you're scared?" 

 "What? No, of course not. You're talking about driving around. Hardly the stuff of legend." 

 "Oh, but it could be, at least for us." 

 "No, Grandma." 

 "Sourpuss." 

 "No, I've got..." 

 "Got what? School?" 

 "Yes." 

 "And what, you want to see your girlfriend?" 

 "NO! I don't have one." 

 "And that's why you're moping around?" 

 "I am not." 

 "Yes, you are. Something at school is bothering you." 

 Cole glanced around again, as if the quiet of the lake gave him the space he needed. Slowly, the wall began to crack, and he seemed a little more willing to share. 

 "Let's just say... it's not always easy being the different one." 

 "You mean the people are bullying you? For what?" 

 "My face, my skin, what don't they make fun of." 

 "Because of your Anishinaabe?" 

 "Well, I'm also European, thanks to you, Grandma. Something no one seems to care about. They only see me one way." 

 "You've said before, but how do you feel about it?" 

 "I hate it, of course." 

 "No, I meant about being Anishinaabe... or half?" 

 "I'm always just me. That's what I think." 

 His words hung in the air for a moment, the quiet around us amplifying the weight of what he was saying. I understood, though maybe I didn't fully know the depth of what it was like to carry that weight—those identities, those labels, and the way they shaped how others saw him. 

 It was a lot for a young person to carry. But I could tell that in his own way, Cole had already started figuring it out—he was carving out his own place in a world that so often wanted to define him for him.

"So come with me, and we won't have to worry about fools for a while," I said with a smirk. "We're fool enough as it is." 

 "At least one of us is," Cole shot back, raising an eyebrow. 

 "Oh, I'm a fool for sure. You know," I said, leaning into my pitch, "there are some things you can't learn in books. In fact, most things. You'll go back to school soon enough. School's a strange place when you think about it—where else do we spend so much time only with people our own age? That doesn't happen in the real world. Honestly, I'm not sure I learned anything truly useful there... except how to be depressed." 

 "You had trouble in school?" 

 "What, you think I didn't have problems back then?" I asked, feigning indignation. "I wasn't exactly prom queen, you know. School felt more like a prison. I didn't have a lot of friends or social groups. I mostly just tried to get through each day. The schoolwork? Just something I did because I had to. I can't say I've retained much of it." 

 "So, you're saying I don't have to go back?" he asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice. 

 "I'm not someone who can grant you that choice," I admitted. 

 Cole sighed, his shoulders relaxing. "If everyone hates school and it's fairly useless, why do they make us go?" 

 "Well, I can't say everyone hates it. For some people, it's the best time of their lives. But here's the thing: we all want to be noticed, to be part of the scene, but only so many can actually shine. The rest are left to muddle through the darkness." 

 "Sure, school sucks," he said after a pause, "but I don't think skipping it to hang out with my grandma is the answer." 

 I couldn't help but grin. "Even if it's my dying wish?" 

 Cole laughed, catching the mischievous twinkle in my eye. "Oh, so now you're going to play the guilt card?" 

 "I'm running out of ammunition," I said, chuckling. "Got to go with the bigger guns." 

 For a moment, the heaviness between us lifted, carried away by laughter. And maybe, just maybe, I'd nudged him a little closer to that tipping point.

 "We can't… we just can't," Cole muttered, his voice filled with uncertainty. 

 "You're saying no, but I feel the walls are getting shaky," I teased, leaning into the tiny crack I sensed in his resolve. 

 "Where would we go? How would we even do it? I only have a learner's permit, and no offense, but I'm not getting in a car you're driving." 

 "You're driving," I said with a grin. "All you need is an adult in the car. And guess what? I'm an adult—at least on most days." 

 "You're not going to stop until I give in, are you?" 

 "That's the plan." 

 "Well, it's a shit plan," he said, then quickly added, "Sorry, Grandma, for cursing, but it is." 

 "I know it is," I admitted with a shrug. 

Cole sighed, shaking his head. "I just wouldn't feel right not telling my parents if we left. I'd feel guilty." 

 "So we tell them," I suggested casually. "We'll say we're going for a practice drive. Then I'll call them later to let them know it's a *very* far test drive. By that time, we'll already be halfway to the North Shore." 

 He looked at me, incredulous. "I'll still get yelled at. They yell at me for everything." 

 "Like what?" 

 "I haven't exactly been a stellar student this year," he admitted, glancing away. "So every day, I get to hear that lecture. Plus, they think I'm lazy. Everything always seems to be my fault, even though I think they're just mad at each other." 

 "They fight a lot?" 

 "Yeah," Cole said softly, his voice laced with frustration. "If that's what married life is, I'm not looking forward to it." 

 I reached out and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "I've noticed the tension between them too. It's not your fault, Cole. You're right—they're just taking it out on you, trying to avoid dealing with their own issues. You're caught in the crossfire, but none of this is on you." 

 He didn't respond immediately, but I could tell my words had hit their mark. For a moment, the weight he carried seemed just a little lighter.

Cole looked like he was building up the courage to say something, his hands fidgeting as he avoided my gaze. 

 "Okay, let's do this," he said suddenly, his voice firm but tinged with nerves. 

 "Really?" I blinked, genuinely surprised. "I wasn't expecting that." 

 "What?" 

 "Well, in my mind, I never got past the asking stage," I admitted with a grin. "Guess I've got to put this harebrained scheme into motion now." 

 "Wait, I'm bailing now," Cole said, stepping back, though his tone was more playful than serious. 

 "Nope," I said, grabbing his arm gently. "We're heading back. You're going to put some things in the car and wait for me." 

 "What are you going to do?" 

 "I'm going to grab a few things and tell a little lie," I replied, shrugging. "Don't think I'm condoning it—it's just a *little* lie. I'll tell them we're going for a drive. No worries." 

 "No worries?" Cole shot me a skeptical look. "Yeah, I'm definitely going to worry." 

 "You're going to go on an adventure with your Grandma—what could go wrong?" I said with a mischievous grin. 

 "Poorly chosen words, Grandma," he muttered, shaking his head. "Next, you're going to say something like, 'We're not going to die,' and jinx us completely." 

 "Well," I said, a hint of humor in my voice, "I'm going to die anyway, so what do I have to lose?" 

 "Great," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "I'm agreeing to go on a trip with an insane lady." 

 "Exactly," I said, patting his shoulder. "And that means it's going to be *good.*" 

 For the first time, Cole cracked a genuine smile. The kind of smile that made me think this crazy plan might just work.