On Becoming My Parents

I

 I’m on the floor,

a board game with a young grandson.

He makes a move that sets me back.

Playfully,

without thought,

I thrust out my lower lip,

exactly the way my father so often did,

hurt,

sullen,

petulant.

And then,

I let the lip hang there

a few beats too long

until I see the little boy—

barely more than a toddler—

cast a sideward glance,

anxious, even a bit frightened,

at my display.

Instantly, I pull in my father’s lip

and laugh

to let this great-grandson

of the man who made me

know this is only a game.

My dear boy melts with relief,

and I’m sorry.

So very sorry.

Yet amazed, still, at how good it felt,

my father’s angry lip

trying itself out

in my face.

II

My mother used to sit

on the edge of family gatherings,

silent,

watchful,

lumpish.

No matter who came into the room

she had nothing, nothing, nothing to say.

If someone sought her out,

sat down,

addressed her directly,

she responded cheerfully,

but, otherwise,

she merely observed.

It wasn’t the kind of behavior

you could complain about to your friends.

“Do you know what my mother didn’t say to me today?”

Her watching silence was never hurtful.

It was only that,

always, always, always

I wanted more.

Today, I find a comfortable place

at the side of the room

on the edge of my family’s dance,

enjoying their choreography,

their energy,

warming myself at the life

that pulses through and between them.

Occasionally, though,

I pause to take note

of the silent,

watching,

lumpish

grandmother

I have come to be.