What the Window Knows

I stand at the kitchen window, watching them like I used to watch the birds at my grandmother's feeder. At seventy-eight, I've become a spy in my own home, though nobody seems to mind. My daughter Sarah moves with that same purposeful rhythm I had at her age, cutting spinach for dinner while her three children spin around her like small planets caught in her gravity.

In her free hand, a bottle of water for the baby, always within reach. I remember my own mother's hands, how they could peel potatoes and soothe fevered foreheads with the same gentle touch. She never needed anyone to read her palm to know what life held - she'd lived enough for a dozen lifetimes by thirty.

"Grandma!" Little Mark waves at me from the garden, where Sarah's husband is showing them how to plant spinach seeds. The same vegetable my mother swore would make us strong, though I suspect it was the love she stirred into it that truly gave us our vitamin for life.

The baby begins to fuss, and Sarah's movements shift into that familiar dance of motherhood - one hand stirring, one hand bouncing, eyes everywhere at once. I used to spy on my own mother like this, wondering how she made it look so effortless. Now I know better than the spy I was then: she was exhausted, she was worried, she was pouring herself empty every single day.

And yet, somehow, there was always enough left. There was water from the well when ours ran dry. There were stories at bedtime when she could barely keep her eyes open. There was spinach from the garden when money was scarce and groceries scarce.

I slip downstairs to help, my joints protesting just a little. Sarah looks up and smiles, and I see my mother's smile looking back at me. The children rush to hug me, and for a moment, time folds in on itself like those palm frills my mother used to make for church.

"I'll take the baby," I say, reaching for the warm bundle. "You finish dinner."

Sarah sighs with relief, and I settle into the rocking chair with my grandson. This is what I spy for now - not to watch from afar, but to be part of the flow. The water we pass down, the spinach we plant, the vitamins of wisdom in small doses, all flowing from palm to palm, hand to hand, heart to heart.