We sit with our books for an hour one afternoon.
Me, with my feet up on the sofa, she curled up in a wing chair opposite. I sneak glimpses above the cover of my Kindle, observing her slightly wrinkled brow as she concentrates on the story she is lost in.
She twists sideways, adjusting the cushion on the arm of the chair behind her for her head, flinging her legs over the side of the opposite one.
She twirls a finger in her copper-coloured hair. She chews on a piece of gum, blowing a bubble now and then.
”Grandma!” she exclaims when she wants to show off a particularly big one.
She adjusts the hassock in front of her chair so she can rest an arm on the open top of it.
She shifts, lies on the seat and tosses her legs up the back of the chair. I’m reminded of the reading gymnastics I performed as a young girl.
Later, I will curl up beside her for a few minutes before bed. She will have a different book in her hands for bedtime reading, and she will ask me about the book I am reading. I will tell her that it’s about a woman searching for her family. The plot will sound familiar, and she will ask if I wrote it.
“No,” I’ll tell her, and our conversation will meander around and about, and we’ll talk quietly about ordinary things as the day winds down.
But just now, in the quiet of the afternoon, I read a paragraph or two and peek over at her engrossed in her own story, and a different story is being written. One of contentment, and the sweet whisper of grace.
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I know. I’ve been absent from this space for longer than I have in years. It’s spring break. I’m attending to the better work of grandparenting. Back soon.