She is Nerri, 22 months old.
One day she’ll be measured in years, but for now it’s months.
I’ve given up chasing my
daughter in order to know my grand-child in a way my grand-parents never knew
me. So I live in the hope that we will bond, my grand-daughter and me, though I
see her irregularly. Her other grandfather lives in Bendigo, sees her often. Last
time we meet a month ago it takes time for her to feel comfortable with me.
Today she is comfortable with
me almost from the time I arrive. She knows my name, points at me when my name
is spoken, though sometimes she points at the dog. In the kitchen she raises
her arms for me to pick her up. She’s heavy. My arm soon aches. How does my
small daughter lug this child around half the day?
She looks at me quizzically—who
are you? Where or how do you fit into my world?—then bursts into a smile, as if
she’s guessed I might have something to do with the mother she adores. She
inspects the stubble on my chin, pokes a finger into my moustache. She traces a
furrow on my forehead. Not once does she try to remove my glasses as my kids
frequently did at Nerri’s age.
I am falling asleep. My
daughter takes Nerri out to hang the washing and I doze off. I am asleep maybe
for two or three minutes when the phone rings. I wake with a start, no idea
where I am. I sit and wonder how it is that I have so little memory of my own
children at Nerri’s age. I sort of remember the joy and wonder of them, but no
particular moment.
I wonder about people who are
able to remember such things. Do they have some capacity I do not? Or is it I
who have the capacity they don’t possess; the capacity to move on to whatever
comes next, to absorb what was, and to simply let it go?
This will perplex me a while
yet.
Rock on.
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