Memory, the song from Cats. I have been singing it at the senior center with a kind piano player who encourages me. I haven’t used my soprano range except to occasionally add a descant during one of our small church services.
Now, memory gives me the notion to randomly go through some of my blogs from the past. The granddaughter I mention in the story below is now preparing for college. With scholarships. She has grown well. I am proud of you, Kate.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love, a resting place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men. (Martin Fraquhar Tupper)
I found a spiral-bound journal with a K on the front of it for eighty cents–perfect for six-year-old Kate. I tell her that I couldn’t find one with an R on it for her little sister, Rebecca, but I did get an extra outfit for her for emergencies. Kate sees no problem with cost disparity. Not at six. She is happy about her book and unwraps it immediately.
“I’ll use it for my letters to God.”
“Oh.”
I don’t mention that she asked me how to spell bird this morning. Her spelling vocabulary isn’t that comprehensive yet. Somehow, it doesn’t matter. Our granddaughter’s large heart is easy to read. Phonetically, drawn with stick figures, printed backward. I suspect her God can comprehend whatever she creates without a problem.
She decorates the front and back cover with blue flowers, drawn with my good calligraphy pen. I let her use it. After all, this is an important communication.
I can’t say I considered writing God a letter when I was in first grade. Heck, I don’t remember ever setting up a book for anything beyond a day’s coloring.
We arrive at school a tad early; there’s been a snow delay. She knows the rule, to sit quietly along the wall. She asks me to wait with her, the biggest kid in the class. I try to wear their innocence, squatted on the floor, but it has been too long.
“Mommy usually sits over there.” She whispers, pointing to three chairs across the way.
I nod, and the principal says nothing about her breaking the stillness. Sometimes adults need directions from their young ones.
“You can go to your classrooms now,” the principal says.
I linger long enough for my final goodbye hug, then leave for my day’s agenda. I wonder with a sense of awe what beauties will fill an eighty-cent notebook and suspect that nothing I accomplish today could come close to its mysteries.
terrypetersen 