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Last Tuesday, I got this text message from my son Dustin:

— Sarah is requesting that you go to lunch with her tomorrow.

My youngest granddaughter Sarah, age six, is in first grade at Jefferson Elementary School. Around here, having lunch with the kids is a common thing for parents and grandparents — so much so that the “Parents Cafe” was built to accommodate visitors. I replied thusly to Dustin’s text:

— I can do that. What time?

I felt a little guilty at having to be asked. I’d been intending to do lunch with her ever since the school year started, but things kept interfering.

Not the least of those was Sarah’s abundance of relatives in Jefferson. All four of her grandparents live here, and every time I was about the do the lunch thing, someone else already was going.

Anyway, at Sarah’s request, Wednesday was my day. When Dustin gave me the particulars, he asked the key question: should he pack her lunch that day, or did I want to bring it?

Sarah was always big on the lunches at Sugar & Spice, a local sandwich shop, so I said I would order our lunches from there. I asked what she preferred.

— Grilled cheese and chips and a water.

Wednesday morning, as I was about to call Sugar & Spice to place the lunch orders, another text message came in from Dustin.

— Sarah has changed her lunch request. Now wants 6-in Subway meatball sandwich on white with no cheese or other toppings and plain Lays chips. Water.

No problem. An hour later, after a stop at Subway, I arrived at the school, signed in, and went to the cafeteria to wait for Sarah’s class.

Jefferson has a four-tiered school system. Kids from pre-k through second grade attend the elementary school. Grades three through five go to Jefferson Academy. Grades six through eight make up the middle school. High school is nine through 12. The system divides the kids into sensible age groups and works pretty well.

As I waited in the hall outside the cafeteria, an occasional pre-k or kindergarten class would file past me, lurching along in ragged single file, following their teacher. At the end of the line came the class’s teaching assistant, herding the stragglers.

Being an unfamiliar presence, and an old bearded dude holding two plastic Subway bags, I received inquisitive looks from practically every passing kid. Some smiled, some frowned, some gave me a blank look.

The hallway isn’t very wide, so the kids passed fairly close to me — close enough so that a pretty, blond-haired little girl raised her fist as she passed and punched me in the stomach.

It wasn’t a serious punch, mind you. Just a casual statement. She continued on, looking back over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. I let out an oomph and pretended to gasp in distress.

Before long, Sarah’s class filed in, and she ran up to greet me with a hug. As she chattered excitedly about a girl named Riley who gave her a BFF bracelet, we retired to the Parents Cafe and found a table. I spread out the sandwiches, chips, and bottled water.

For a while, we chatted about this and that. She told me she would introduce me to her friend Riley. She showed me her electric blue paracord survival bracelet and her new fuchsia and fluorescent green shoes, which she said glow in the dark.

When I told her about the girl who punched me in the stomach, she sighed and shook her head in dismay.

“She’s probably in pre-k,” she said, licking at the marinara sauce in the corners of her mouth. “Those kids are very young — very emma-toor.”

“No, really!” she said, warming to the subject. “They are so emma-toor that all the pre-k and kindergarten classes have two teachers! It takes a teacher AND a teaching assistant to handle those kids!”

I expressed my understanding and grave concern.

“The first and second grade classes, we only have one teacher, because we’re more ma-toor, and we know how to behave!”

The conversation proceeded in the usual spasmodic manner. She told me about the antics of various kids, some who met her approval, some who didn’t. I asked how she liked her new teacher and got the expected reply: “Fine.”

I also asked what she normally brings for lunch, when no visitors are scheduled.

“I get peanut butter sandwiches a lot,” she said. “Which is fine. But you know what? I always get applesauce! Mott’s applesauce! Which I never eat!”

“Well,” I offered, “maybe you could do a trade with another kid. Like, trade the applesauce for something they don’t want.”

“Are you kidding?” she huffed. “Nobody likes apple sauce!”

Half an hour later, as if guided by some internal clock, she stood up and walked over to the window overlooking the main cafeteria. She peered intently for a moment, munching potato chips, and returned to the table.

“Yep, my class is lining up,” she announced. “I gotta go.”

I stood up to clear off the table. Sarah hurriedly crammed the last of the potato chips into her mouth and chased them with a slug of water.

Before I could collect a departing hug, she thrust the half-empty water bottle at me and raced from the room. As she turned the corner, she looked back and gave me a quick wave and a cheery “see ya!”

“Bye!” I yelled, suddenly feeling sad and disappointed. In the past, Sarah always — always — gave me an arriving hug and a departing hug.

She meant nothing by the omission, of course. It’s just that things change. The young ones, they ma-toor.

She caught up with her classmates and fell in step at the end of the line of bobbing heads. I stood there for a long time, watching as they receded down the hall.

A few minutes later, back at my car, I took a quick sip from her water bottle before heading home.

It tasted like potato chips.

Sarah on her 6th birthday, wearing a telltale smear of green cake icing.