The grandchildren speak

Paige

I was sitting in the easy chair a few evenings ago
when Paige, pajamed, brushed, and smelling of toothpaste,
came over, placed her hands on my knees, put her face
up into mine, and purred, "I won't ever kill
you, 'cause you're my favorite grandma."
Thank God. One less thing to worry about.

Reilly

Saturday. Bad day right from the start.
"No! I don't want to get up!"
"No! I don't want to stay in bed!"
"Cheerios? Yuck!
“Mom! Make Paige give that to me! It’s my robot!”
A general no to everything.
And then it happened. A gigantic wet sneeze
left him as surprised as the rest of us.
A brief pause, and tears began rolling down his face.
Kristin, Good Mother, reached out.
“Reilly, what’s wrong?” “When I sneeze,”
he wailed, “my cheeks get cold
and I don’t know how to get them warm again.”
Kristin’s laugh didn’t help.
It’s hard to be six.

Peter

You didn’t talk at all for a long time,
and it warms me that one of your first words
was light, and your first sentence, light on, as you pointed
to the correct spot on the ceiling or toward the window.
Light has always drawn you, even at four months
when the experts pronounced you blind, told us
there was no cure, and we gathered our courage,
began checking out books on Braille.
But now at two you navigate the shores and shoals
of this house with more than your inner compass. You reach
for favorite toys, recognize people before they speak,
and point to pictures in books saying,
“Doggy! Doggy! Woof!” You’ve been promoted to
visually impaired, but we hold the label lightly.
Clearly the lights are on. Sail forth, young Peter.
Show us the way.