They make it sound so simple and they take it in stride: this bit about children not staying in Cleveland these days—how they move out…to Chicago, and New York, and greener pastures.

The papers— they speak to jobs, and economy,  and to providing kids a reason to stay.

Hey!  How’s this for a reason:  your parents!

Lucy came and went again. Spritelike, boasting bounce and beauty, my two-year old arrived, showed her stuff, and rode home.

To Chicago.

Three hundred miles away.


They stay with the Birthmother while here. It makes sense, I suppose. I mean they bring the dog, and while I offered him a home for the weekend, perhaps they think I’ll steal him back. (I wouldn’t, you know. Dogs too move away).

So I stopped there Wednesday, for a bit. Saw Jace, kissed Stace, and held Luce (as long as she’d let me).

PAPPY!” she’d greeted, causing melt. With her father upstairs showering, Lucy clung to my arms. “Daddy’s Girl” though, at his reemergence just later, she threw me right to the curb.

“Pappy…” she noticed on Friday. The novelty of my presence had waned overnight and we were heading to Lyndhurst. It was en route to my brother’s that I discovered the following geometric equation:

               Aunt Margie is to Lucy as Aunt Helen is to Stacy

Could it really be? There’s a nexus with Margie and Lucy ne’er evident ‘tween my kids and Helen. It was easy on Friday, and we lingered before bidding adieu. Carrie, Leesa and dinner were next, though.  Time to go.

So we dined at La Place.  Calamari and kale — you know: your traditional Shabbos fare…

And then she was off to bed—The Little One—for the night.  Stacy’d call in the morning… I’d come say Goodbye… and they’d go.


“pappy” she nodded…barely…as I took off my hat. It was Saturday, and she’d had a rough night. “She can sleep in the car,” comforted Jason.

I studied her, all peaches and cream—

Watching her smile
Hearing her vocabulary
Feeling her warmth.
And knowing, all too well, that soon they’d be gone.

I count the blessings.  A superb mother is Stacy; a doting father is Jason. A good life they share.

Out west…

Where jobs flow and an economy thrives—                                                                                                                     Where the grass is (presumably) greener.

Not to me.

Yes, I “get” their great lives and I see Lucy thrive.  Good—if that’s what they want.

Forgive me for not doing handstands.  The kids have gone home, you see. And Lucy’s out west, you see.


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