My great-niece turned one and was celebrated with a party today. There were balloons galore, decorative unicorns of every kind, yummy food, and lots of guests celebrating. Rachel, the grands, and I traveled to Massachusetts to join the throngs of adoring people who are so glad that Sophie is here.
I always treasure a chance to visit my sister's place, the home I grew up in. To share it with my grands is the happiest of happy things. This morning, I watched them run down the long hall I once took my first toddling steps in, and my eyes leaked a little. My parents would have been so pleased to know their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren joyfully gather in this home they built.
Between helping with party prep, I took a little walk outside. I walked down to an area that was once a fenced paddock for horses. When the last horse moved on, my father ordered a bunch of tree seedlings by mail. He found the advertisement in the back of a magazine. When they came, he sliced the box tape with a sharp pocket knife, and I opened the cardboard package and lifted out tiny sprouted trees, no longer than his finger. He let me help plant them. He shoveled the soil; I gently teased each wee tree from its companions, held it over the hole, and watched him place the dirt around the fragile roots and pat it down. It was my job to water them all one long summer. Over the first years they grew, I used to practice leaping over them, pretending I was a horse, and each small tree was a jump to traverse.
I remembered all this as I looked at those trees. My neck tipped back and back and back. The saplings I once leapt over with ease now touch the sky.
