Sunday, December 2, 2012
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.