my five-week-old great niece Lucy,
the two of us bound together
by blood
but not yet by story;
the only missive
we share is our
week together
saying 'good morning'
and touching noses,
me bouncing her soft body
when she cries,
me trying to soothe,
her trying to discover
her new world;
and on this morning,
our last together,
she turns the corner
of her mouth, just so
into a soft, baby smile
and i know she is thinking
about the times
her mother fed her, or
my mother rocked her
or when her sister
(2, plus some)
held her and
kissed her face,
of the times her uncles
took her into their arms
and showed her
their world at that moment,
bound by beach and sound and sky;
or of when her grandfather
danced with her
in afternoon
delight for both;
and as i look into her
family-blue eyes and
marvel at our same chins,
i wish she could remember
what i have seen of this week —
my sister holding and bouncing
her new granddaughter,
my brother walking into the
surf with his grandson,
now 8, who
asked my nephew
about girls and French kisses,
and Monopolized our evenings;
our beach party dance-off
with no misunderstanding
from our
part-time partytime
brother-in-law;
how her mother ate fresh peaches
and slept when she could
(and cried a little),
not able to stick her toes
in the sand often enough
like her namesake,
my grandmother
always liked to do;
how we ate shrimp
and how we watched
the sun set
over the blue waters
of the inter-coastal waterway,
my husband wishing
he was out there, skimming
the smooth surface,
under sail,
or my son
casting chicken necks tied to string
in search of crabs for his
Maryland love;
or how my daughter
lifting the paddleball
into the air or tossing it
into the ocean
with her husband,
who sweated
into soccer heaven
with the 8-year-old,
all of them no longer afraid
of the sharks
they had read about
in the news;
how i sat with my
nephews for the
first time in a year,
learning about jobs
and life
as they see it,
shared an early-morning coffee
with the newest girlfriend,
her eyes crisp as
the ocean water
we were about to leave;
and how after supper,
on our last night,
my mother sat
at the kitchen table
with her grands,
holding stories
in her lap as
softly as she did her
great-grandbabies,
hoping to pass
her own history on.
writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.
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