October 11, 2009

3:42pm. Dunn Brothers on Upton in Minneapolis. Cold enough for a navy scoop neck shirt and wool cardigan and fleece jacket and Peruvian hat for me; onesie and foot pajamas and swaddle blanket and crocheted hat for you. At the bottom of Ricki and Peter’s driveway, a gang of ducks waddled through the fallen green leaves. The cold blew in two nights ago and when we woke up there was a sheen of snow on the deck, the earliest October snow in 24 years. Another storm is supposed to move in this afternoon.

Your eyes are beginning to connect to your mind and your ears. If I move the rattle across your line of vision, you follow it, not smoothly, but in little jerks, as though you are looking at paintings on a wall, set frames rather than one object in motion. You are cooing and squeaking too, kicking and moving your arms of your own volition rather than reflexively.

Ricki and Peter’s neighbor, David Grube, is in the hospital with Lymphoma and pneumonia. He and his wife, Nan, always leave soup in the refrigerator and bread on the counter on the evening Peter and Ricki return from a trip. Nan has a soft, round face and nods her head affirmatively whenever anyone is talking, a slight supportive movement, soothing and knowing. Five years ago, David developed a speech impediment. When he talks, I sometimes don’t know where to rest my eyes. In the summer, their yard is always filled with flowers and grandchildren carrying plastic trowels or laid out on blankets in the sun. I haven’t actually been inside Nan and David’s house too many times. Once to help Ricki water the plants. Another time to look after the dog. A few times I stood in the doorway while Nan dug around in her cabinets for the can of cream of mushroom soup or box of gelatin my mother needed to finish a recipe. Once they invited us over to make ice cream on their porch. Ben and Dave (your uncles) and I took turns cranking the handle on the ice cream maker; we didn’t talk to each other but we were polite enough not to argue in front of Nan and David.

I tell you this because the Grubes have defined, for me, what neighbors should be. Also because I am beginning to realize that there are many people, of my parents’ generation, who you may never know. This is startling and sad; the Grubes have been such a presence in my life, albeit peripherally, that it’s difficult to understand they will not be a part of your life too. I want to transfer everything that has been good about my life—the places, the people—directly into yours. This will not always be possible.

Ricki is walking back to the house now; you are cuddled close to her in the Ergo backpack, a blue hand towel stuffed in beside you because you are still too small to fill it out completely. Dorothy visited yesterday and brought olive-thyme bread from the monestary in Collegeville. Also an adorable bunny that she knit for you, its eyes little “x”s of blue thread. “Thisbe is so much bigger!” she cooed as soon as she saw you. We laid you on her chest and you raised your head up to look her in the eye.

I dread your growth as much as I rejoice in it. Never have I been so completely aware of the passage of time. Now it feels as palpable a dwelling as your nursery.