About Jacob


A work in progress for my grandson on his 13th birthday:


I.

We drive up to New York when you're a week old. We take turns holding you.

Blue skies, early June. Your mom is torn. Your two-year-old sister sorely needs a trip to the nearby park, but you were two weeks early and shouldn't go out.

I'll stay with him, I say. I promise to call your mom the instant you stir.

Your mom, our friend Siobhan, Bill, Alea and Kathleen troop out the door; you remain swathed in blankets in your infant chair on the floor beside the sofa.

I crouch across from you. I'm your grandma, I say. I love you so much. 

The conversation's pretty one-sided. You're in your own universe, a tiny alien creature not quite ready for this world.

We're in a bubble ourselves, you and I, in this now silent apartment. You're not aware of me, but I'm oh so aware of you. I touch your cheek. I talk a bit more. I stare at you. I could stare at you for hours.

Twenty minutes pass. You stir just as your mother calls to check in on you. She dashes home, runs up the stairs, picks you up and cradles you against her. You eat.

II.

A few months later, three or four, I can't recall, your grandpa Bill and I are visiting again.

I troop upstairs to your bedroom and I'm a bit taken aback. It's a fine, clean room but plain, the only decorations red and blue car and truck decals on the wall above your crib. You like them, your mom says. She wants to do more, but she's overwhelmed, exhausted and so is your dad. When you cry, your dad runs upstairs to stick a pacifier in your mouth and then rushes downstairs to care for your sister (who has not taken your birth well) and help your mom.

You lucked out on your parents, Jacob. Of course, they lucked out on you, too. Just an aside.  






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