A Question of Generations
Another generation. The youngest was small, wrinkled, red...but still a joy. The others were shy at times, or tired, or happy, and always at the center of our lives. I remember those years...were they so long ago? The passing on of our genes to the next ... generation x. Our life was complete. I was filled with the awe of motherhood. I wasn't going to say or do the things that bothered ME as a child. I wouldn't keep my children waiting while I talked, talked, talked to someone. I would always explain my reasons for why they had to do something; it would never be "because I told you to". And I would let them explore their world without undue fretting and worrying. Or would I . . . ?
Cruisin' with Dad in the fresh air and sunshine, steering a mean machine. What more could a boy want? Do we relive our own childhood through such times? Some rewrite it instead. Painful memories of neglect or even abuse can be forgotten for awhile with moments such as these, for what might have been, what could have been. It's a healing thing, this bonding of generations. The years were still ahead of us, filled mostly with joys, but also pain and sorrow. But these times...the sharing of life from parent to child, father to son...were jewels. No price could replace that day. We hold it as a treasured gem, savour it as the true gift it was. But did we see it then? Was it a moment of great significance, that morning? Was it . . . ?
Another generation. Grandparents enjoying each other and the youngest one, who is not quiet so small as she once was. But still...but still and always...a joy. Grandma and Grandpa. Near the eve of their lives (but they didn't know it). They would not live to see this little one grow tall and slender, turn into a young women (but we didn't know it). It's a good thing we don't know the future. I wonder what they felt, that day at the beach. I wonder what it feels like to be a grandparent. I wonder if I will live to see my grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, and sit on the beach with them. I wonder...What does it feel like? Do you know?Ruth Bankhead (c)2000 |