Writers obtain inspiration from a variety of sources. Mine usually come in dreams, or as I’m waking in the morning. Sometimes a character talks to me while I’m walking or driving asking to have his/her story told. It can be said to be divine, or mystical, or even crazy but it is magical. This is the true story of a spirit who guided me to write a poem.
At the tender age of sixty-two I suddenly realized that I would never be a grandmother. It had been my highest ambition, having grown up with wonderful grandparents and great-grandparents. As Polonius said, “and it must follow as the night, the day….” (totally out of context) I believed it was the natural culmination of a life well lived. I made the bold statement to my three progeny at various times that my aim in having children was so I could eventually be a grandma. I think that may have been a step too far. In hindsight, probably not a great tactic in the parent/child relationship.
By April, 2008 none of them exhibited any interest in procreation. NONE. They were happily living the lives they designed without one thought to my hopes and desires. Oh me, oh my. For several years, I had pinned baby pictures of my friends’ grandchildren and even the children of my childrens’ friends on a wall in my office cubicle. Someday, I believed, the wall would contain a load of pictures of MY grandchildren. But now all my children had exceeded their fortieth birthday and no grandchildren on the horizon. Not even a hint, a whiff, a whisper, a sign.
That evening I sat with my journal and began to jot down a poem mourning the conscious loss of something I would never have. I wrote about the little granddaughter I wished for – all the things I envisioned doing with her.
The next day I went to my computer to transcribe that story to submit to my writers’ group. As I sat at my desk, I felt the strong presence of a little boy hovering over my left shoulder. I could hear his voice. He wanted me to bake a cake for his third birthday. His spirit was so vivid, that the story of my granddaughter morphed into a poem about my grandson. I read it to my writer’s group the next week with an air of sad resignation, a kind of mourning.
My Grandson at Three
A memoir of loss
A chubby bundle of verve
Dirty knees, killer smile
A charming packet of cuddles,
Blue eyes spark with wonder
That is my grandson
Innocence and childish wisdom
Life – a fish bowl of dashing delights
A bright idea swishes past
A clever observation
The world full of marvels
At three his every thought
Becomes action
Or question to be explored
Energy and curiosity
Cascade thru our day
From awakening
Til he is tucked away
Too tired to dream
My grandson to me is
Joy, delight, a miracle
Sweet arms surround my neck
“Read it again, gramma”
Good Night Moon redux
Snuggles in my lap
Affection, a two-way road, no tolls
I know it can’t last
This rapture of childhood
If love holds when he is grown
He’ll read to me
In the afterglow of remembrance
I wished a granddaughter
Tea parties and dress up
I wanted a granddaughter
To primp and pamper
I dreamed a grandson, the light of my life
I am the mother of three
None plan children of their own
Their choice, their path
Expectation denied
A loss I mourn
He will never be born to the world
In consolation of loss
My grandson is born to my heart
A luminous vibration of life
Forever tenderly just mine.
On Mother’s Day, May 11, 2008, I received a call from our eldest daughter who was living in Hawaii. “Hi Mom,” she said, “Happy Mother’s Day. You are going to be a grandma.” I was stunned. Excited, stunned, excited, over-the-moon, amazed. It was several days before I remembered the little boy who asked me to bake his birthday cake. My daughter declared that she was not going to find out the sex of her child until it was born. I had a hard time keeping the secret – I knew a little boy was on his way. He told me so about a month earlier.
Our daughter was divorced and moved to Tucson just before her baby was born. Ken and I were privileged to be part of his childhood. I did bake his birthday cake for his third birthday, white cake with chocolate frosting and M&M’s. He is all that I dreamed. He does have blue eyes and a killer smile. He is a bundle of energy and light. He is a blessing beyond my imagining. He taught himself to play the piano by ear at age three. He learned to play the guitar from his mama. He played little league with his grandpa as a coach. He’s a scholar at school taking honors and AP courses. He is now over six feet tall, nearly as tall as grandpa, and very much his own person. He belongs to his high school mountain biking team. He has participated in El Tour de Tucson Bike Race every year since he was four starting with the fun run, then the five mile and so on. This year he challenged himself to ride the longest run – 105 miles that he completed in five hours. Oh, the bragging can go on and on for pages.
This past weekend we celebrated his 15th birthday. I baked a German Chocolate birthday cake for him.
And at nap time when he was little, we did read Goodnight Moon – many times.
wonkagranny 