The Energy of Generations
My granddaughter and her two-year-old son Francis came to visit for a few days. They spent a lot of time doing chalk drawings on the sidewalk, from in front of the house to the corner. Lots of colorful abstract stuff, a bird perilously perched on a blazing sun, some hopscotch blocks, and an elaborate declaration of love in big bold letters with a string of exclamation points at the end: WE LOVE YOU, G-MAN!!!!
Back when my granddaughter and her half-brother were living with me when they were quite small, they started calling me G-Man. G for grandpa.
After a day of sizing me up, Francis decided that he too loved G-Man. To show his love he’d send a lamp crashing to the floor, or slam a frying pan into the refrigerator, or rip down a curtain in the living room, then turn to me and beaming with outstretched arms proclaim: “I love you, G-Man!”
“I love you too, little guy,” I’d say, and then hoist him up. He’d kiss me on both cheeks, touch noses, and then put his forehead against mine.
“Close your eyes,” he’d say, and the energy of generations would flow between us.
