The Gift of Years
A poem
A poem
These soft hands I hold, still new,
unscarred by life’s knocks
tiny fingers grasp mine, trusting,
instinctively knowing I’d never let go.
Your eyes search my face
as if memorizing every bump and wrinkle,
recognizing me as someone who loves you,
who will keep you safe in this strange new world.
When I scoop you up, your head finds
that familiar nook in my neck,
your fuzzy hair tickling my skin.
You cling with that singular focus small children have,
as if I am your entire universe in this moment.
It overwhelms, the way you need me, want me,
in a way my grown children never do anymore.
This second chance to guide a life feels precious,
though my bones creak
and energy lags well before nap time.
No longer do I wish for youth’s return
I savour your chubby hands tugging mine
to show me wonders, a butterfly, a mound of ants,
the moon rising full and splendid.
Through your eyes I rediscover joy in simple things.
You burrow in my lap as I read aloud,
turning pages with care,
though you cannot yet make out the words.
I delight in your delight,
in Nursery songs and peek-a-boo,
games long forgotten.
When you call me grandma in your toddler tongue,
my heart swells with a pride decades deep.
This blossoming love is a gift I cherish,
a windfall ripe with hope.
My chance to nurture a tender soul,
share hard-won wisdom,
give the abundance of affection
that wells within this grandmother’s heart.
