My Grandson
He named me.
Before that, the first time I saw him he had that wisdom in his eyes.
His head was strong and may it always be.
He would run, I mean run to me when I opened the door,
Eyes bright with delight and a giggle that would melt a heart.
If he spotted me through the window, before I got to the door,
The both of us could not get to the door fast enough.
I wonder, will I see that smile, hear his laugh, feel his hug.
Does he want to share that, will he want to share that?
Will there be any glimmer of remembrance?
Are books by your bed, are you outdoors quite often, walking among the trees or zooming past them as you pedal fast?
What are your interest, I’d love to know?
Do you feel protective of your sister even if she bothering you when you’d rather not be bothered?
How is school, do you enjoy learning, making friends?
Will I get to know these things about you?
I love you.
My Granddaughter
You learned pretty quick to take up for yourself when your brother tried to overpower.
In the double stroller, you were delighted to be behind your brother, able to reach up and grab at his hair to make him squeal. I have a picture to prove it.
I am proud, proud of the way you are determined, even if you have to be loud about it sometimes.
And I beamed when someone said, “she looks like you” and when I saw you dressed in the clothes I had saved from your mother’s babyhood.
So peaceful were our quiet times together, snuggling, reading, figuring out a puzzle or singing itsy bitsy spider.
Tell me now, do you like to draw, read, do crafts or would you much rather be getting on your bike, adventuring outside or a little of both. What do you enjoy most about school, do you want to know more about numbers or words or science?
By the way, do you remember me? I do hope to know you again someday.
I love you.
Fscottwrites 
These poems are so beautiful, Frances. Although you know great sorrow in the absence of your grandchildren and their lives growing up, I feel sure they will find you and reach out to you when they are of an age to do so.
One of the first things I did when I was able to squirrel enough cash to get out of my mother’s insane asylum, was get in touch with my Dad….just an ordinary, bright caring man who paid all our bills and beyond while my mother tortured him mentally and physically….until she locked him out of the house and told a different story. At 19 I was able to visit him and we had the best chat ever….tears and truths told….very brave for a man of his generation. (born 1930) I told him I had never doubted his love and caring and never blamed him for any of the madness. He felt guilty even though none of the abuse was his fault. Even at that young age, I knew that if I never saw my Dad again (we lived 2000 miles apart), we were square….no unfinished business. And there was only love. The most amazing thing is he’s always said he never hated my mother. He may not have mastered socially acceptable verbage, but I don’t think he feels hate for anyone, bless him.
So, speak your peace often….there are those listening. And one day those who are listening will be your grandchildren. Love and hugs, Ruth
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Oh Ruth, bless him and bless you. Love to you
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Frances, your writing grows bigger and bigger, yet delicate and ever more beautiful. Your pain and your hope are clear yet gentle. And yes, I too believe that one day these little beings separated from you will reach out. I am thankful today for you, as a dear friend and an insightful blogger.
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I love this so much 💕♥️💕
Trish DeJohn
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Beautiful ! 💗Beth
Sent from my iPhone
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