I had a brief but satisfying Fiona infusion before this morning’s departure with Anna and her dogs. I’m celebrating the start of my free semester as her driving buddy, Maine to Michigan.
Fiona and I spent 45 minutes alone last night while her mom and auntie went to do errands. Nellie and Anna were worried that I might get stuck with a screaming baby since it was past mealtime, but we were fine. We cuddled quietly in a darkening room and rocked, and rocked. The side of her tiny, loose fist, held in front of her face, made a question mark, just the size of my thumb. What will be, Fiona? How will your life unfold? What adventures and misadventures lie ahead? Who will you become? What will I be in your life, and you in mine? Right now, I am fully your Grandma, sitting here, loving you; nothing else exists in the world.
But there’s the door opening downstairs. There are my daughters’ voices, my little girls, two grown women, close friends in deep conversation. How differently you will see my daughters, strong women, bulwarks of fortification for your growing self. What will that look like? I try to imagine what my little girls will be to you, little one, with your little question mark hand, a curled young sprout, a fiddlehead fern, just beginning its great unfurling.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 129: 229 words, TOTAL = 21,341; 38,659 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families.