Grandparent’s Heart

 “A Grandparent’s Heart”

—i have carried generations in these arms—

some wild, some weary,

most of them unrecorded,

except in the lines of my face

and the memories stitched into my soul.

I was young once—

barefoot in the rain,

laughing until I cried,

loving people who didn’t stay,

losing people I thought never would leave.

I raised babies when I was still one myself,

rocked them through fevers and fears,

and prayed more nights than I slept.

I thought I might break—

but I bent instead,

and I stayed.

Now the house is quieter,

but my heart is not.

It carries history in one hand

and hope in the other.

It beats with a softer, slower rhythm,

because I have learned

just how fast time slips through your fingers.

To be a grandparent

is to fall in love twice—

once with your child,

and once with theirs.

It is love multiplied,

overflowing,

wiser now,

with eyes that know

the ordinary is holy.

It’s silly songs made up on the spot,

secret snacks slipped into tiny palms,

front-row clapping at games you don’t understand,

and saying “yes” more often than “no”

because you know how precious “one more” really is.

It’s laughter caught in wrinkles,

legacy whispered in lullabies,

and second chances

at the moments you once rushed.

And when I’m gone,

I don’t hope they remember the things I did—

the meals I cooked,

the gifts I wrapped,

the schedules I kept.

I hope they remember who I was:

the way my arms always opened,

the way my eyes lit up when they walked into the room,

the way my prayers followed them

long after they thought I’d stopped.

I hope they remember

that I showed up,

even when I was tired.

That I listened,

even when the words were hard to find.

That I let them be little—

just a bit longer,

because childhood never lingers long enough.

And if they remember nothing else,

I hope they remember this:

that they were loved—

deeply,

completely,

without condition,

without end.

Because this—

this is the holy ache of time,

the sacred gift of second chances.

This is history and tomorrow

held in the very same embrace.

To be a grandparent

is to live love’s encore—

a softer song,

a sweeter melody,

a crown of silver and a heart still young.

And of all the thousand lives I’ve lived—

this one,

the one where I get to rock

the baby of my baby,

is the one I would choose again.

Every single time.