Burnt Chocolate Stories

 “We need to talk about your blanket, Josh.” I'm seated next to my toddler at the breakfast table. Matt is on his way to Montessori pre-school.  It's just one year old Ben, Josh and me having a quiet morning together, a perfect time for a serious conversation. Three bowls of apple and spice instant oatmeal are scattered on the table between droplets of orange juice and milk. Ben’s high chair tray is splotched with shiny patches of varnish, dents and bits of dried cereal. His hair sticks out in spikes held firm by butter and toast tidbits that he has squished through doughy fingers.  Josh wiggles in his booster chair, making room for his crib blanket next to him. The thermal weave, blue edged satin, thinned comfort cloth mats down easily. His round eyes open wide, head lifted towards me as half a spoonful of cereal goes in his mouth and the other half dribbles down the front of his teddy bear pajama tops.  I take a deep breath and speak with a concerned and I hope compassion

It’s 7:00 in the morning on a warm July day in 2008. I’m nervous and excited about the prospect of Ben being able to live longer and feel stronger. A new invention, surgically implanted, is supposed to keep his diaphragm moving his lungs so he can breathe. His friend, and film collaborator, is with him in the next room, helping him bathe and dress. Ben is excited, having waited nearly one year for FDA approval. Steve has already gone downstairs to have a quiet breakfast.   My heart races so fast, I think I might be having a heart attack. I take some deep breaths and imagine Ben a few days from now taking steady breaths. I step carefully into the bathtub and turn on the shower, wash my hair and let the hot water massage my back but the tightness in my throat remains.  As I step out of the shower, I slip on the floor and collide with the edge of the toilet seat. In seconds, blood covers the toilet, the floor, my face. The gash is directly above my left eyebrow and may need a stitch

Eleven month old Henry, 2007 Just the other day, I was looking through my files, trying yet again, to get organized. I ran into a story I wrote during my early grand-parenting days when challenges were still in their early stages. Not much is written about being a grandparent, but I suppose, just like parenting, each of us has to find our own way. Somehow, our nine grandchildren, like their parents, have grown into delightful, intelligent human beings with whom we enjoy visiting each Sunday afternoon on Zoom and hope to hug in person one day very soon. Finding and reading these stories tickles my memory and brings me right back to those wonderful days.  July 2007 Memory resides throughout the body in the strangest places. Not long ago, I sat down at the piano and watched as my fingers picked out Fur Elise, a piece I haven’t played for years. A week or so later, I was bathing our eleven-month-old grandson Henry. One moment, he splashed happily in the bathtub, the next he wanted out.