Summers are for grandkids,
when days slow down enough to remember
the quickness of the years.
Yesterday my cute curly-haired daughters
performed plays in the yard.
Today my disarming dark-haired grandkids
bring plates of plastic fish
caught just for grandma from a blow-up pond.
Times are different, they say,
yet the falls and the thrills remain the same:
tender knees still get skinned
from little feet running full speed ahead,
and squeals still pierce the air
when the buzz of a bee fills a small ear.
I run quickly to help
but they’re already off on their next thing.
As I am surrounded
by these offshoots of our family tree,
familiarity strikes:
that daredevilish twinkle in the eye,
that swaying to the tune,
that need to know the details of a plan.
Portions of all of us
gathered into unique God-creations.
I sit with the memories,
yet pull myself back into the present,
wanting to cherish
this moment of “Look, grandma, a beetle!”
The lawnmower thrums
in my grandson’s throat and a song escapes
from another’s mouth.
Utter amazement is caught in my throat.
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