who i’d be

She was there when first I came into this wide open world.  She announced, “we have our Darcie,” or so I’m told.

She gave me rides in the wheelbarrow and taught me to sew.  She tended my scraped knees with fresh aloe.  We’d pick berries and apricots and then set up a table at the farmer’s market to sell our bounty.

In the blink of an eye pigtails and knobby knees gave way.  Dressed in a crimson cheer skirt, I’d look into the stands to find her watching not the players behind, but me, cheering them on.  She took me shopping for my first Homecoming dress–jade green with pouf sleeves and a fitted bodice.

At sixteen, I found a card left in my room.  Her script on the envelope made my heart drop: my secret was no more.  With the bud of a daughter growing within me I read Gram’s words, her promise.  This isn’t going to be easy she predicted.  But I’ll always be here if you need me. She knew better than I what was in store, but what was done was done and so she offered all she could: the love I’d come to count on.

She stood by as that baby–and another–grew.  She prayed and hugged and encouraged all the while.

One Thanksgiving Day I gave birth to a naked and needy almond-eyed babe in a hospital 2500 miles from the only home I’d ever known.  Down syndrome they said, words that landed like daggers in my soul.  In the nursery, they set my baby apart from the rest as if her condition were contagious.  There was only stark and crushed and broken into a thousand pieces.  Gram came in on the wings of a whisper, bringing along the audacity of congratulatory wishes, sentiments that stood in sharp contrast to the sorrowful nods and shifting eyes of cold strangers.  She brought a tiny velveteen rabbit: a symbol of a love powerful enough to transform.

The ears of a country home echo with laughter ringing up from countless UNO games; the clank of two porcelain teacups; the churn of an ice cream maker on the porch; the Happy Birthday song refrain, sung by glowing candles.

The eyes of a hospital hall remember words sharp on the doctor’s tongue.  They remember a young mother–hollow, unable to stand.  They remember a grandmother’s love, folding in and pushing on.  Strength passed from one generation to another.

The heart of a girl flows over.  Years blessed beyond measure.  A grandmother cherished more than she knows.

Without her, I don’t know who I’d be.

Happy birthday.  Love you.