An Absence

Grandma Lillian sat in the peeling white wicker chair. She had not wanted one that rocked.
"Every day," she repeated. "Everyday."
"What's everyday?" I asked her. I stopped laying the long pieces of grass in floor plans on the porch steps. I hoped to eventually build a house.
"Light is in every day, Kareem."
"Yeah, I guess Grandma. They call it daylight."
She chuckled at my youth. "Do you know what darkness is, dear?"
"You're going to tell me." In one motion I swept the grass off the step.
"Darkness is nothing. Darkness is an absence."
"Of day."
"Of light," she said.
"Oh," I said. I went back to my picking.
She sat for a while. I was too busy making improvements to see when she left.