for my granddaughter, Ember
My granddaughter
Ember
just short of
her second birthday
reaches up, out, down
because holding
is new and
how she understands things best.
She literally grasps
in order to grasp
but not just with hands
as she did some months ago
--a tiny plastic dinosaur, a piece
of apple, a stick
her grandpa’s glasses—
now with her arms, her whole body.
“Hold!” she sings reaching her
arms out,
her
tiny torso arching to the effort.
(All her words are small songs,
even
single syllables have at least two
notes).
She sees a tree outside
and sings, “Tree. Hold!”
She points to the clouds
and sings, “Clouds. Hold!”
and the sky, “Sky. Hold! Hold!”
this one with more intensity
reaching her arms almost straight
up.
“Can you hold the sky, Ember?” I ask
“Yeah,” she answers with two
notes.
“And can the sky hold you?”
“Yeah,” two notes and a nod
of utter certainty.
She throws her head back,
stretches her whole body,
rises on her toes
as if to will herself
higher and higher
until she can
hold the sky
and by holding
know it.
Later in the day
walking alone
I look up and think,
“I’m almost seventy
and maybe I’ve forgotten
how to understand
the sky.
I’m not talking about collisions
of molecules
or the scattering of light waves.
I’m talking about
knowing the sky
as only a mystery can be known
by getting your arms around it
pressing yourself
against it
letting your heart beat into it
and its heart beat
into you.
Maybe I need to reach higher.
Maybe I need to reach harder.
Maybe I need to stretch my body more.
Maybe I need to throw my toes all
the way into it
as I once did
long ago
when I first held the
sky
and the sky
held
me.”
C 2014 Bob Kamm
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