summer sentence 2015

i sit, staring into the eyes of

my five-week-old great niece Lucy, 

the two of us bound together

by blood

but not yet by story;

the only missive

we share is 

our 

week together

saying 'good morning'

and touching noses,

me bouncing her soft body

when she cries,

me trying to soothe, 

her trying to discover 

her new world;

and on this morning, 

our last together, 

she turns the corner 

of her mouth, just so 

into a soft, 

baby smile

and i know 

she is thinking

about the times

her mother fed her, or

my mother rocked her

or when her sister 

(2, plus some)

held her and 

kissed her face, 

of the times her uncles

took her into their arms 

and 

showed her 

their world 

at that moment,

bound by 

beach and sound and sky;

or of when her grandfather 

danced with her

in afternoon 

delight for both;

and as i look into her

family-blue eyes and

marvel at our same chins,

i wish she could remember

what i have seen of this week —

my sister holding and bouncing

her new granddaughter,

my brother walking into the

surf with his grandson, 

now 8, who

asked my nephew

about girls and French kisses,

and 

Monopolized our evenings;

our beach party dance-off

with no misunderstanding

from our

part-time partytime

brother-in-law;

how her mother ate fresh peaches

and slept when she could

(and cried a little),

not able to stick her toes 

in the sand often enough

like her namesake, 

my grandmother

always liked to do;

how we ate shrimp 

and how we watched

the sun set

over the blue waters

of the inter-coastal 

waterway,

my husband wishing

he was out there, skimming

the smooth surface,

under sail,

or my son

casting chicken necks 

tied to string

in search of

crabs for his

Maryland love;

or how my daughter

lifting the paddleball

into the air 

or tossing it

into the ocean 

with her husband,

who sweated

into soccer heaven

with the 8-year-old, 

all of them 

no longer afraid 

of the sharks 

they had read about 

in the news;

how i sat with my

nephews for the 

first time in a year, 

learning about jobs

and life

as they see it,

shared an early-morning coffee

with the newest girlfriend, 

her eyes crisp as

the ocean water 

we were about to leave;

and how after supper,

on our last night,

my mother sat

at the 

kitchen table

with her grands,

holding stories

in her lap as

softly as she did her

great-grandbabies,

hoping to 

pass 

her own history on.

writemuch.blogspot is the original work of author susan byrum rountree. all written work and photography is copyright protected and can only be used with written permission of the author.