Do your grandchildren speak another language?
One different from yours?
So different, you simply don’t understand?
Like three of mine.
Starting life in Russian.
Hearing lullabies in Russian.
Stories in Russian.
Conversations in Russian.
That’s when I lean on my body and theirs.
Cues, hints, signs.
Smiles, nodding heads, closing eyes.
Coos, clicks, giggles.
So I become a mirror.
Curling lips upwards, crooning back.
In high-pitched notes mothers use with babies.
Or, I attend when they cry or whine.
Absorbing their distress as mine.
Supplying comfort, solace.
By toddlerhood, we both point, nod, shake heads.
I listen to the strange string of words.
Parse them for meaning.
Label an object or two in English.
Offering my language to them.
Seeking balance.
Between understanding and not.
By school years, they traverse two languages.
Our back and forth, easier.
But, in truth, words are never enough.
The body reveals the message.
Eyes, mouth, hands, stance.
Exquisite give and take.
Grandparent-child dance.
Lynn Benjamin
April 30, 2024