Member-only story
I picked this picture on purpose.
There are thousands of pictures of the baby. I’m talking if you really counted them one by one, thousands.
He’s nine months old, and besides being the most beautiful, photogenic, loving, enlightened child in the world, he also has three sets of grandparents. And his mommy and daddy have many good friends. And we all have phones and wifi.
So, you know, a million pictures of him.
This one is of his mom, my daughter. A picture of a woman with a story packed with a million short stories that will, with any help from life, make one big long one that some of us will know and love and tell and remember, generation to generation, until she’s a great, great, great, great grandmother, living (for some) only in memory. Maybe not even. Maybe those children a hundred and fifty years from now will be too far away in time and won’t know a thing about her.
I mean, I don’t know a thing about my great great great great grandmother. But chances are, each woman in my ancestry, all the way back, loved her children like we love ours.
But there’s one moment that stands out for me about her, and how she loves.
Her car had just pulled into the driveway. I’d been with her baby, my precious grandson, for the day. We were playing peekaboo…
