Who wouldn’t love being pen pals with a young child?  I thought I had hit upon a great way of passing along some anecdotal family history, sprinkled with homemade wisdom here and there.  How hard could it be?

 

Her message on the note card was short and to the point.

Dear Gram,

What would be the best present in the world?

From,

A Secret Friend

Juliet

 

Thinking better of it, she had erased A secret friend and signed her name below the still-visible erasure.  I chuckled to think that she regarded herself as my secret friend. She is my granddaughter and she is seven years old.

In the past her note cards have asked simple questions like “How was your Christmas?” and “What is your favorite color?”  Those questions were easy to answer and I had a lot to say.  As the words tumbled themselves effortlessly onto the page,  I remember thinking how simple this was going to be, being pen pals with a seven-year old.  Until now.

As I read over her latest question, it was clear that I was stuck on the word best.  If only she had asked me what would make a good gift, I could rattle off some practical things like a new hand trowel for digging in the vegetable garden, a new set of measuring cups for the times we bake bread together, or a new pair of binoculars for watching hummingbirds in the backyard. But she didn’t say good, she said best. And she added the words in the world.

The best present in the world.

There was really only one answer but I couldn’t give it.  Impossible images, like dodgeball projectiles, hit me squarely in the heart, filled up my eyes, and settled in my throat. I wondered if ever there was a time when Sorrow would pack its bags and move on, leaving my heart alone.  When would it stop ambushing me when I least expected it?

I pictured myself on one knee in front of her, my hands on her shoulders, my eyes holding her gaze as I worked at hiding any telltale traces of anguish. I heard myself say in a soft voice, free of hitches:

“Juliet, the best gift in the world would be to spend one more day with your Grandpa again.”

I am annoyed at myself that I cannot think of a more suitable answer to give her.  Surely if I shared this with her, she would be disappointed by its very impossibility. I know this from experience.

I remember asking my mom what she wanted for Christmas a very long time ago and she answered with two words: Good children.  I really wanted her to say that she wanted a new scarf, a magazine subscription to “Better Homes and Gardens” or a bottle of Chanel #5.  The possibility of staying well-behaved for any period of time was so remote that I knew she would be disappointed.  She was asking for a gift I could not give her.

Juliet is a sensitive and thoughtful child.  My answer would burden her with emotions she could not possibly understand.  I do not want her to be burdened or disappointed. Her question requires a concrete, achievable answer—a thing within her grasp–not a desperate, impossible wish.

If she asks me this question again when she is sixteen, we will talk about the miraculous nature of love and how it remains in your heart long after death claims the one you love. I will tell her about the crazy way your heart still misses that person after many years, even after another person’s love has filled you up with happiness.

But she’s not sixteen; she is seven. She requires an answer that can be unwrapped, and admired—something I can make a big fuss over while she smiles with pride.

Something concrete. Something like new measuring cups.

 

 

(Juliet wrote the notecard in March.  I still haven’t answered her.)

“How did this happen?” I ask myself.

It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.  Like everyone else from the beginning of Time, I have been getting imperceptibly older with each new day.  So why is it that “being older” feels new, like it’s just happened?

I was born in 1950.  The math is easy to do and depending on your own place on life’s timeline, you might think, “Wow, she’s old.”  I might be tempted to agree with you except that as long as I am not near a mirror, my numerical age actually feels like a lie.  That’s because I have always felt young.  I don’t mean feeling physically youthful; I mean feeling young and vibrant and optimistic within my own mind. The physical plant staring back at me in the mirror is graying and wrinkling.  She stoops and sags while the person within soars.

Age is just one piece of data and only a small part of who we are and what we are capable of becoming. No matter what the numbers show, we all have the capability to learn, to change, to gather wisdom.  We all have something valuable to contribute.

This is for my children. This is for my grandchildren. This is for all the people who have encouraged me to share my writing with a wider audience.

This blog is for you.