Because she asked me to, I am gently waking Abby to tell her the morning is perfect for a paddle, so she'd best get out of bed. It's already 6:30, but by this time in the year that's sunrise. The sweet spot of the morning, before any breeze even wisps in.
Mist is on the water. Everything's flat and quiet. Just a few spiders to chase out of her kayak, and we're off.
Monday morning magic.
And I'm not sure what fills me most; the silent sacredness of the morning, or the fact that she actually wants to do this with me.
I don't know if all Grammas are insecure in this way, but personally, I'm amazed that my teenagers still want to hang out with me. Mind you, the cottage itself has a pretty strong draw on its own, so there's that.
Even so. That your 17 year old granddaughter thinks it's a good idea to come up for the weekend when only the old fogies are here is, well, pretty groovy.
We teamed up on Grandad and kicked his butt in Scrabble. Well, the second time. The first time we got demolished, but never mind. She went swimming while I took the pictures. We fed chipmunks and blue jays. We set up cozy, loungy nests on the deck, and we both read, and I wrote stuff, and she sketched. And we lay kitty-corner on Gramma's bed propped up with so many pillows, solving all the problems of the world.
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Daughter of my daughter.
How is it possible that this amazing human soul and I belong to one another?
Honestly? I'm not really sure how it gets any better than this.
Written and pictures shared with permission, because that's a real thing.
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