A Christmas Gift from My Grandson on Being Present (and an Apology for My Poetry)
Twas the day after Christmas
And all through the hotel,
My husband’s not stirring, (though in snores he excels).
The coffee is bubbling in the lobby with care,
In hopes that early risers like me would be there,
For words in a journal, on a page, in this Mac,
Can take their time to reveal and unpack…
I am in KC in the Crossroads Hotel lobby, sitting in an out-of-way corner near the coffee brewer. Thinking about how my husband and I spent Christmas yesterday with our daughter, SIL and our 1-year-old grandson.
Closing my eyes, I’m reliving sensory seconds of holding the baby. How his weight settles trustingly on my arm. How his soft fine hair lays flat and smooth under my lips. How immediately he jiggles and jumps forward when his dad appears grinning in front of him. How he calls and coos and gurgles commentary while waving a bit of torn ribbon in the air.
Glorious.
There’s a baby in my novel and while speeding through the plot I think I’ve overlooked him. Forgotten how they claim their own space amidst distracted adults.
But holding him yesterday, the past sensations rush back of carrying my own children, how heavy they’d become and still I wouldn’t put them down knowing how fast, fast they’d grow and not want to be held any longer but run ahead, adventuring, and calling back, Hurry! Come see! And it would be a spider web or an ant scurrying about his business or rocks that had to be collected and carried home, pockets bulging.
I catch myself smiling, writing down these small moments.
For, here’s the thing: I did look closely at the spider web then, noticing its perfectly wheeled pattern. I did kneel down and heads together watch where the ant was hurrying to, wondering aloud whether he was coming back or just leaving home. And all those rocks. Sometimes I had to examine them very carefully to understand why they were collectible (and often my unpracticed eyes could not tell), but, nevertheless, they came home and ultimately filled a plastic orange bucket under the porch.
I want more of these. More of these close moments. Paying better attention. Being less hurried.
Capturing them in story.
For where am I in such a hurry to go?
I sprang from my chair, and shut down my Mac,
For good or bad, these words would be on Substack,
I heard me exclaim, ‘ere going to the breakfast buffet,
“Happy holidays to all, here’s to a new day!”
Warmly,
P.S. For a much better poetry experience check out the posts by Maggie Smith
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