Every now and then, we showcase voices from our growing community on this blog. And this month, we're happy to share the following micro memoir from Mari Mendoza, one of our judges for the Tadpole Press 100-Word Writing Contest.
I watch my daughter on the porch, head tipped back, laughing. As I do dishes, I see her mouth, her eyebrows move. I can’t see my mom’s face but I see her head nod. I am desperate to know what they talk about. At the same time, I don’t want to know. I see the gift of this matriarchal bond: my grandmothers weren’t in my life when I was fourteen. And yet, I worry about the math: all this love, this connection, these long swatches of time—do they get subtracted from my little pile of each?
Sorry Mari, I saw Johanna above and did not realize it was your post. Jerry Krasnow
Lovely observation, Johanna.
Your query is reminiscent of my observation about what is needed to sustain life. Parents and grandparents give love to their offspring, incrementally passing their life force to their young.
As grandparents, whose grandchildren lived 500 miles away, each visit with them fulfilled us up, Yet the drive home filled our hearts with longing. The joy was followed with weakening. We give, they grow. The amount remaining declines until nothing is left.
As a grandparent, that is how I understand the life force transfer. No need to worry. This is just how life passes from generation to generation.
Jerry Krasnow