Now, the youngest grandchild rings the doorbell. He goes into the garage for whatever reason and becomes locked out; unable to open the door back into the house. Clad only in boots, no coat he scurries out and around the house to ring the doorbell. A different, happier surprise at the door. Both a blessing in the starkness of life.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
My last visit to New York was a reluctant one. I wasn't sure whether I could make a difference, whether I was needed. I knew I must go, to just be there for my daughter. My own old feelings of not belonging, being on the outside, raised an ugly head. But this wasn't about me, so I pushed the feelings aside although I fought them the whole while there. I went to stand behind my daughter, just a presence for her to fall back on if needed. I quietly moved on the edge of grief, helping where I could, when and if needed. The doorbell rang constantly; friends with food in their hands and tears in their eyes.