grandparenting

Ten people, three generations, at a Thanksgiving table. “Look at what we did,” says my husband.

Could my granddaughter’s heart possibly be as full as mine? Does she appreciate the meaning of these moments, that they will endure long after the cooking aromas subside?

No offense to our neighbors in Mexico or Chile, but I don’t want their produce, or anything grown upside-down in a hothouse. I want Mom’s.