This morning, I find myself consumed with thoughts of my family, its history, its future. I think that, because I am watching my daughter’s body change daily as she grows this sweet, first granddaughter, nostalgia hovers close these days.
I have discovered that I am both culmination and continuation. I am the culmination of all those who came before: the immigrants who left Europe to forge a new life in America; the man who grew up in dusty Oklahoma and serenaded the most beautiful red-head in town; the couple who lived in a tent by a lake and did kitchen fox-trots; the parents who started off with such hope and faltered so devastatingly. I am also continuation: the children that my husband and I made, the family that we raised so erringly but with such love, has gone out to keep the family tree growing tall, reaching simultaneously toward sky and earth. Culmination and continuation. Wish granted.