My granddaughter Olly has pink high tops. They are adorably small, since her feet are less than five inches long. The shoes are cute enough all by themselves, but the memory of her mother wearing ones just like them thirty five years ago is enough to send my heart into pirouettes of nostalgia. I always double knotted them, to keep them snug. She happily wore them to the zoo, and the grocery store. Racing was not her thing but if it had been I bet they would have made her extra speedy. Olly is on the brink of walking, and running will come soon after. Then life will be even more exciting. 

 

This week she signed to her father during dinner. 

 

"More." Small fingers bounced together to express a wish. Olly liked the macaroni and wanted seconds. 

 

The emergence of communication is miraculous. Not that she hasn't been voicing her will plenty. Complaints about her mother walking out the door, joy around the woosh of a swing. Frustration over a toy out of reach, sadness when she fell. Being able to converse with someone you love is one of life's sweetest delights. Catching the message, whether it is hurled like a baseball, or hidden inside patter, brings two people closer.

 

"You are lonely. I hear you."

 

"You want a hug? Me too!"

 

"Work was extra hard? Tell me more."

 

I can even tap my fingertips together to reassure you that I am listening.