LETTER TO HELEN

Someday you will read this. Some day when you have grown and I am gone.

I never got to know my grandfather, except through a few black and white photographs. And what my mom told me about him. But I didn't want that to be the only way you knew of me. I want the words I leave and the pictures I leave to speak to you for me.

Today I want to tell you about the first time we were alone together. When I felt comfortable enough to babysit you by myself and your parents were trusting enough to depend on me.

We only had a short time together - before you fell asleep - because that is what a 5 month old girl does after her noontime bottle. But we had a wonderful hour together.

After your mom mom left for work, I was in charge. I was hoping it would go well and you didn't let me down. You were able to communicate with me - both in your own way like all babies do, but also in a strange way - one that you couldn't master yet, but you tried. You seemed to try to speak in a language you did not have yet and to relay thoughts that you could not have thought yet.

One of the thoughts you did communicate was you let me know you were hungry. So I fed you 5 ounces of your bottle, and that seemed to take care of things. And since it was a beautiful day, I decided to take you outside.

Mom mom left a couple things for me - she was making sure I was equipped. There was a towel, which I guess was supposed to serve as a blanket if you went out. So I threw it over you even though I didn't think you needed it. And then there was this conversation I remember about being careful when I pulled your long sleeve outfit over your head. I guess she thought I was going to treat you like the lawn mower or something and pull the thing until your head popped off. Silly mom mom. I didn't see a need to change your shirt. The day was so pleasant.

So I put you in you stroller, which you were mostly OK with, and we went out the back door.

We went off-road first, into the back yard, but that didn't seem like a good idea, so we turned around and went to the front yard,  parking under the big silver maple tree - until I got concerned that the breeze might knock a branch down. So we moved over a little, under the dogwood. I positioned you so the sun was not in your eyes but you could have the full view of the trees - with their green leaves so high, and the sky looking so blue and peaceful.

We had no other plan. I just wanted to let you take things in. You looked around, your blue eyes focusing on the blue sky, and we looked for monarchs passing overhead, on their flight to Mexico.


After a short time, we moved to the front porch and I pulled you out to sit with me. I showed you the planter of flowers that I grew - huge impatiens in reds and oranges and fuchsia.

I let you grab a handful because you wanted to experience them for yourself. I don't know if you realized that you were so young, that even these flowers were older than you.

You had a small yellow birch leaf in your hand for a while, which you seemed to like too. Everything was new and everything was to be learned. And I was happy to be there with you to take your hand and help you to learn.

You seemed happy. Content. We were feeling as peaceful as the September day. Of course, one of us became interested in chewing on her toes. I tried to reach my toes, but I could not. I could a few years ago... maybe I just need to do some stretching now.

After a while, I put you back in your stroller and we sat a little longer. You had a lot to say to me and you blew some bubbles too. Then after a short while, it seemed your language got a little testy - which I translated into a request for more to eat. So I fixed up another 3 ounces and fed you on the couch in the living room - the one that mom mom likes to sit at when she feeds you. You fell asleep before you finished.

I burped you and took you upstairs for a nap. You fussed for about 10 seconds and then zonked out. Over the next hour, I checked several times to make sure you were ok (because nothing was going wrong on my watch!) and sooner than I wanted, your father was here to pick you up and take you home.

Because you were groggy, we didn't say good bye. But it didn't matter because I knew I would see you again shortly.

Here is a movie I took of you earlier that day. I call it your swimmy movie. You looked just like your mom looked when she was learning to crawl almost 35 years earlier. It's hard to express all that this makes me feel but I think someday you'll experience it yourself and understand.