Carry-on
“Grand-son” sounds a whole lot like “carry-on.” (As in luggage.) Coincidence? I think not. #carpebaby
When it registered in my heart that my time here in Portland meeting and bonding with my first grand baby was drawing to a close, things got real real fast. As I’m typing this little note with one thumb on my phone—that’s resting on my thigh—resting on my chest is nearly ten pounds of the sweetest little big guy.
As I type, I listen to his sleeping sounds, I feel his teeny big heart beating against mine. I inhale; I breathe him in. I try not to exhale. I want his little spirit in me. My face is buried in his shimmery, silky, impossibly soft golden hair.
The last couple of days, people have seen my public tears, and I just don’t care.
This baby boy has a litany of nicknames already….Tank, Brook Trout, Dingus, Big Fish. I’ve given him a few, myself…Stretch, Chin-up Boy and because his arms stretch so far and wide, I call him “Wingspan.” I imagine the great big world and I hope it’s kind to him. I imagine all the love he will embrace with those arms. I wish he could use these wings to fly south to me.
I will leave you in the very best of hands and arms, sweet, pure Brooks. You will be tenderly loved and taught. I’ve never been more sure of anything.
So because of that, I too can rest. Until our hearts touch and beat together again, carry on, grandson.