In theory I believe that my grandmother loved me. Well, one of them, anyway knew my name and could possibly pick me out of the crowd that was her descendants. The other grandmother had fewer but since my father was her youngest and I was his youngest she was pretty gray and forgetful by the time I came along. There were no photos of me on her mantlepiece. I recall when my dad broke the news that she had died. We lived across the continent and I did not cry.

 

The other day a friend was talking about how her son was struggling. I only know him enough to say hello in passing, and would resist embarrassing him by being overly friendly in front of his friends. I haven't taught him sewing or singing, as I have a hundred other kids in town. But as my friend spoke I felt a flood of affection for this young person trying to find his way. 

 

Where did the feelings come from? How can I care for someone not in my circle? As I have admitted before sometimes I run dry on warmth for the son who grew under my heart. Surely the supply is limited. 

 

Yet if I am honest there are instances where the output of love surpasses my ability to replenish it. It's like when the power goes off during a thunderstorm. I have no idea how to kick start the lights and am at the mercy of those magicians who do. So far they always have.