Tomorrow morning, I’ll board a plane for London to see my daughter and my grandson. I’ve been there many times, now. This trip, like all others will have its own unique character. The word “fullness” comes to mind when I think of this trip.
My daughter: The fullness of belly, of breasts. Incubating her next child, while she discovers that, to her astonishment, the fullness of her heart can open even more to include this new as yet unborn child. I imagine my eyes following her as she moves around the flat, caring for her two children, one here, one in waiting. I will remember my own second pregnancy, which was to end in her birth, so easily forgotten at times, when caring for one already-here small child.
My grandson: The fullness of his mouth, that now spills words so easily. What was expressed until now with pointing, with arms waving, with head nods, with a learned-in-daycare signing, can now all be heard. Words rush from his lips. They tumble over each other and bounce off him, the furniture, the toys, the walls. I will arrive in darkness, and he will already be asleep. I imagine my first sight of him on Friday morning, as I stand over his crib. “NeNe is here,” I will say, and he will repeat “NeNe.” The sound of my name will rush toward me, and I will embrace it, even before I bend down to embrace him.
My suitcases: Bursting with maternity clothes and newborn clothes that have been stored in my attic. I have rewashed the already clean newborn clothes. I think I have done this just so I can touch them all again, hold them up and marvel once again that a human being can be that small. And in a selfish way, I revel in the fact that I am touching these tiny garments before they will touch the squirming body of my second grandchild.
The fullness of joy. And of gratitude. And of love.