for Gracyn

On April 30th, my granddaughter, Gracyn, will celebrate the birthday that’s traditionally marked as an adolescent’s coming of age, a transition from the innocence of childhood into the realities of adulthood. Culturally, we mark the 16th birthday with an official driver’s license and all its ensuing freedoms and responsibilities. I think we can say this about coming of age: it comes–a little or a lot, sooner or later–to all of us. But it’s an entirely different experience when you’re not coming of age but rather witnessing it.

Before Gracyn was born, I made the decision to leave my full-time high school English position to take a position as a literacy consultant. After decades of devoting all my evening and weekend hours to grading student essays, I wanted to devote them to her. I wanted to be a grandma who could say, “Yes, I’m free! I can babysit–whenever and for however long you need me. I’m absolutely available!” I wanted to be a grandma who turned her dining room into a playroom, who was always scouting garage sales for dolls and dollhouses, books and puzzles. I wanted to be a grandma who singlehandedly perfected the Slime recipe that had gone internet viral, one who knew when and where to find the newest Squishmallows (and would wait as long as it took for the weekly delivery truck to pull into the Walgreen’s parking lot). I wanted to be a grandma who was always up for “recreational baths” that lasted a full 60 minutes, that required several “warm-ups” to keep the water at least tepid and involved a legion of plastic mermaids with shiny, pastel hair. I wanted to be a grandma who’d spend the better part of a morning or afternoon on her knees beside the tub or in front of the dollhouse and who could eventually stand up with little assistance and some feeling still present in her legs. I wanted to be a grandma who was a joyful regular at the Dollar Store and made semi-annual trips to the outlet mall, returning triumphantly with bags of new summer or school clothes. I wanted to be that grandma.

I wanted to take a lead role in my granddaughter’s life, standing straight and true on center stage. As the years have gone by, however, I’ve seen how much life goes on beyond me, and I’ve realized–as parents and grandparents inevitably do–that I’ve become more of an understudy, waiting in the wings, ready and willing to take the lead again if called upon. I know the part so well. I’ve played it for years: the playmate, the helper, the confidente, the mentor and protector. This is a once-in-a-lifetime role, and I’m continually astounded that I’m a grandma to such an incredible human being.

During the pandemic, I was fortunate to homeschool Gracyn, a sixth-grader, and her brother, Griffin, a second-grader. I planned lessons for her, sat beside her as we read and discussed, marveled over science experiments, and laughed as we attempted to speak the Spanish we were learning. I will never again have this dedicated time with her, and I count this as one of my greatest blessings.

When I received word that I’d been awarded a 3-week writing residency in another state, I prepared weekly packets of work for both grandkids and made plans for my husband to take over their schooling. On the morning of my departure, I moved my suitcases from the bedroom to the foyer and mentally reviewed my checklist of things to do before I left. When Gracyn pushed open the front door at 8:00 A. M., her face fell as she surveyed my suitcases. While I gave last minute instructions and made one last sweep through the house, she was painfully quiet. Finally, when I turned to say my goodbyes, she couldn’t even look at me as tears spilled down her cheeks. In that moment, my heart broke. All of my false bravado, my cheery assurances I’d be back before they knew it, left me in a violent sob. Neither of us could speak as we desperately tried to gather our wits. And for a few precious moments, neither of us moved, rooted as we were to the familiarity of the kitchen and each other.

The March wind buffeted my car as I pulled down the drive. I stopped by our mailbox and wondered if I could actually leave. When I finally pulled onto the highway, I knew I’d always remember this moment. And I have. In this moment, Gracyn and I both came to understand how we’d become more than grandmother and granddaughter; over the course of that pandemic year, we’d become true friends as we homeschooled and sheltered in our rural neighborhood. Saying goodbye was terrible–and wonderful. Parting was, indeed, such sweet sorrow.

Coming of age may be a universal rite of passage, but it’s also uniquely individual. As we watch those we love grow up, we understand their days will be fraught with challenges which will shape their lives. These challenges may be similar to or very different from our own. As we watch others take on these challenges, we recall the times we were knocked down and struggled to begin again, the times we were hurt and deceived, the times our optimism was tempered or destroyed. As witnesses, we’d like to prevent loved ones from pain and disillusionment, but we can’t. Too often, we can only stand on the sidelines and wait to pick up the pieces.

I can’t say much about the poignancy of a child or grandchild’s coming of age that hasn’t been said and felt before. I am just one grandma in centuries of grandmas who’ve lived and loved fiercely. And most days, I’m without words to describe the tsunami of emotions that crash over me. As Facebook memories pop up with photos of and sweet posts about the little girl who stole my heart, I find myself wishing for a “do-over,” just an hour or two with the Dora the Explorer dollhouse or an afternoon of slime-making. But then as I see her take the track to begin the 3000 meter run, I find myself marveling at the young woman whose dedication and discipine during the winter months has prepared her for this moment. I watch her round the far curve, blond pony tail streaming behind her, resolve evident in each stride, and I think it can’t get much better than this.

But it can–and it will. This, too, I know. For it will be a pleasure and privilege to witness her growth through each season of life. And so, on the occasion of Gracyn’s 16th birthday, I wish her many blessings–now and always.

Why I Am Without Words
 for Gracyn

Rooted to the kitchen floor, I stand before you
as sobs crash against your tight-lipped resolve,
your tongue useless to stay the flow
of something dark and cold that rises within
and threatens to undo you.

I’m leaving for three weeks,
and you’ve just helped me load my suitcases for the trip. 
We can’t bear to look at each other,
and shoulder to shoulder as we close the car door,
we quake, our fragile souls quiver.
It’s not for long, I say, just a couple weeks.
But the March wind seizes my words 
and whips them away like chaff.

Today, you’ve sent me a photo of the hyacinth
blooming in my garden.
Because I know you were waiting for them to bloom, you say,
because they might die before you get back.
Miles away, you think of how I’ve waited for these first blossoms
and how I might be missing you as much as you miss me.
Best friends do such things.
For eleven years, you’ve been my granddaughter,
but now—

Now, I’m without words.
I have no language to speak this mercurial joy that washes over me
each time I think of you thinking of me.

What can I say but that the blossoms here are lovely enough;
that time crawls on as it must;
and that even if all the hyacinths wither and die,
my best friend is watching the road
waiting for me to come home.