He says, “Gramma, that’s not what I said, and if it is, it isn’t what I meant!”

He isn’t a little  boy anymore.

He articulates, “I am ready for some freedoms from you, and I think they should be…”

He is making his way into independence, feeling his way into young adulthood.

I observe, hold back, give space.

It is a tricky tightrope

tough to balance.

I fail, a lot.

He is untying the proverbial apron strings, as it should be.

He vacillates, “Gramma, will you sing to me and rub my hands?”

 

Some things will remain…

 

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 5am