Small fact and fingers and farthest one from me,
a hand's width and two generations away,
in this still present I am fifty-three.
You are not yet a full day.
When I am sixty-three, when you are ten,
and you are neither closer nor as far,
your arms will fill with what you know by then,
the arithmetic and love we do and are.
When I by blood and luck am eighty-six
and you are someplace else and thirty-three
believing in sex and god and politics
with children who look not at all like me,
sometime I know you will have read them this
so they will know I love them and say so
and love their mother. Child, whatever is
is always or never was. Long ago,
a day I watched awhile beside your bed,
I wrote this down, a thing that might be kept
awhile, to tell you what I would have said
when you were who knows what and I was dead
which is I stood and loved you while you slept.
Your "a thing that might be kept/awhile" brings to my mind the words on my wedding band, "What thou lovest well remains," from Pound's Pisan Cantos. Thank you for your precise emotion.
ilza, a special thankyou from me and from grandson Ben
(who, impressed by the solemnity of the funeral of his other grandmother yesterday, implored in the back row of chapel to be fed and, having been satisfied, waited for a moment of total silence before uttering the loudest burp).
I recomend a plastic table cloth for that, not on the table but to cover the floor. If it big enough you can stand the high chair on it and get a few weeks more before the cereal hits the carpet. :-(
If you get the right dog, it intercepts the cereal before it reaches the floor, without mugging the infant for it before any reaches the mouth. We nicknamed our dog Hoover for her consummate skill in this.