Ramona

Ramona is three months old. Yesterday, in fact, marked the end of the first quarter of her first year in the world. We were at Margo and Gerald's the Saturday night that Ben called and said, "She's here." In a wonderful serendipitous turn of events, her anniversary was also a Saturday and we were again sharing the evening with our good friends Margo and Gerald. We all celebrated Ramona's three month anniversary with a shared amazement that she already that old.

I have yet to hold Ramona is my arms, although I have pored over the many photos of her and have seen her when skyping with Ben and Alise. In this short amount of time, she has gone from being a Baby Blob to being firmly entrenched in the land of Babyhood. I see new expressions in her face, I hear of new feats of dexterity. I long to see and meet her in person.

The incomparable E. B. White wrote a small poem after his son Joel was born, "The Conch:"

Hold a baby to your ear
   As you would hold a shell:
Sounds of centuries you hear
   New centuries foretell.

Who can break a baby's code?
   And which is the older—
The listener or his small load?
   The held or the holder?

I think of White's words when I study the most recent photos. I look at Ramona's little face, at the deep, solemn look in her eyes. I see traces of all her heritages in her: Chippewa, Cuban, WASP. I wonder what she is already thinking and what she already has known for centuries.

I cannot wait to hold her to my ear.