What did she think when she held him that first time, carefully cupping his infant head in the palm of her work-worn hand, touching the tip of her nose to his downy cheek? That newborn scent. Milky sweet breath. Embodied innocence.
She swaddled him again, tucking the ends of the softened cloth into the folds of the wrap, and lifted him to her shoulder. Rocking him, she patted his back to help ease out a bubble of air, humming an old song. A twinkle in her eyes belied the hint of shadow and foreboding that lurked in her heart. No matter the scandalous nature and far-fetched details attached to this child’s conception and birth, this bundle was hers to love and dote over. The questioning glances and subdued murmurs of the village need not determine the depth of the fierce love welling within her. Whatever lay ahead in this child’s path, she, his Bubbe, would always and only be for him. At his healthy burp, her hummed tune lilted to a playful song.
Infancy gave way to toddlerhood. He adored her and reached up to her whenever he saw her. She held him as she visited with a neighbour, her face turned in conversation. He took her face between his hands, dimpled tot skin cupping her faded cheeks, and turned her to look at him. Wanting her to see him. And she did. He fingered and twirled the fringe on her scarf and nestled his head into her shoulder. Gently she swayed, her heart full as she carried on with conversation.
He grew. She greyed. And she watched him. Watched for signs that he was someone other than ordinary. One day, when the sun lay low in the sky, he looked up at her, his dark hair tousled and dust outlining the toes of his brown feet.
“Do you want to play tag?”, he asked.
She looked at him, amused.
“I can’t run as fast as you,” she told him.
“I won’t run my fastest,” he reassured.
“Ok!”
Off he ran, his swift sturdy legs flying over the grass. She gathered up her skirts in her hand and ran too, trying to land softly so as not to jar her sore knee. Out under the apple tree, she caught up with him, both of them caught in fits of giggles and sharing the essence of the moment. She looked at him and saw a boy, a truly special, but truly ordinary boy.
As the years passed, she caught glimpses of an old soul in him. He would study things, wondering how they worked and get lost in his world of pondering. It seemed he always took a different angle to a task, be it chore or play, that spoke to his curiosity and agile mind. At times his questions gave her pause and that sense of foreboding from long ago would land with a soft thud inside her gut. But then the precocious child gave way to the boy wanting a snack and the tilt that she felt settled again.
Puberty coincided with a trip to the city with his parents. When he wandered off, seeming to prefer the company of philosophizing adults rather than his friends, she didn’t know what to think. He was grown up beyond his years. His sense of justice was keen, and he was quick to lend a hand in the household. Taller than her now, he still always met her with a warm embrace and an easy smile. Sometimes they talked quietly together, he asking her probing questions about life and even death. Like the lad’s mother, she cherished the moments and held them within her like a treasure.
With time, he picked up the tools of the trade that he learned from his father. Curls of wood shavings often hung from him, and the scent of fresh-cut wood stayed with him. She was proud of him. Steady, sure, and always with a ready laugh, he brought light and life to their family.
This was the boy-become-man that she knew, and when he left and the stories of his goings-on returned to her, she held to what she knew with unswerving loyalty and trust. Her pride in him swelled when she heard of his blunt resistance to worn out traditions. She heard that he challenged the stodgy leadership of their own people and spoke out against their lack of integrity. When his family expressed concern as to his mental stability, she ducked her head to hide her smile. Their concern was genuine she knew, but she also knew that it was driven by public opinion. He was the most sane person she knew.
And then he was gone. Gone. She didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. She was bereft and her unflagging, quiet confidence was shaken. Her days were spent waiting – for what she wasn’t sure. Some kind of reassurance? Some remnant of that life and light that had been hers?
Days passed as days do. Her waiting settled into a way of being. Now and again she caught a glimpse of movement in her periphery, but always it was gone when she turned. She was too weary and felt too old to chase it. The old apple tree with its gnarled limbs provided solace as she took in her own gnarled hands. Memories shimmered, and she saw again those dusty, bare feet flying as he ran, felt the weight of the toddler head on her shoulder, and listened again to the child philosophizing. Sadness mingled with gratefulness, and she felt something akin to contentedness in her unknowing. She would wait. She would watch. She would wonder. Days would pass as days do. And she would know a nearness that she rested into with a tentative grace.
Dedicated to these precious ones who call me “Marmee”