Eli’s eyes offer wisdom. Looking up smiling…taking it all in … watching… synthesizing…not missing a beat. He is all of one year old.
Strong argument may be made that life cycle events are termed such not so much for the marked rites of passage, but for the life they, even in the best of circumstances, can suck out of you. No reflection on my family, of course. They are warm, gracious people. Still, there was a different dynamic to past generations. We not only married within the neighborhood but stayed within the neighborhood. We walked to birthday parties (didn’t fly). Best yet, bodily rhythms in tact, we slept in our own homes, in our own beds, and rose rested to sing “Happy Birthday”.
That stated, I love these events, rarely missing them. Indeed, they give me reason to leave Ohio and rhyme to my visits. So I do birthdays!
Max’s first? I picture Elmo. Lucy’s first? I see a gym.
Eli’s first, though….this past weekend: AT A HOUSE.
No, that wasn’t a typo. Family and food IN A REAL HOME! Who needs more? Not this cowboy. Eli’s party? Best venue ever.
—Took me back, it did…to days when Hal and I’d romp, Cousin Gary’d join in, men would play cards and women’d clear tables—
Not that change is bad. (Aging, perhaps, but not change necessarily). I couldn’t help thinking though, as I watched on Saturday, that maybe Eli, in his quiet, infinite wisdom, saw things my way.
First birthdays, like milestone surprise parties, are more photo-ops for the masses than celebrations for the honored. And that’s OK.
Eli’s simcha offered everything, from a son slaving over a patio larger than my Bayard bedroom to HIS son, all of three, showing how quickly time flies.
Time flies for adults too.
‘Round the table we sat, the many of us- East Coast Gary and I regaling ourselves (if not the crowd) with stories of days at Fort Sam Houston. Medics we were in San Antonio, and through the safety of stateside anecdotes we fought the war. (Did I mention the Military discount from our motel?).
But the day stood for Eli. A shining star. Turning 1.
This gentlest of souls was named for my mother. Never do I look in his eyes and not see her there. What higher honor than to perpetuate one’s neshamah through generations. “Eli”, (Hebrew for ascended), heightens my spirit by his existence and lofts each of us by his presence. All babies sparkle, plain and simple. Babies named for one’s mother, however, glisten! As such, while New York cousins surrounded his face, I sat there quietly, consumed by his heart.
My eyes were on the prize. He was the reason d’etre, the quiet straw who, even napping, stirred the drink.
Not that there weren’t a few off-key moments….comic relief, let us say. No names please, but even with an AARP card in hand, Grace Slick provided me etiquette lessons, parenting lessons and (at a restaurant), a chapter on the “New Math”.
It mattered not. At all.
The weekend came and then we went. Twenty-four hours after we sang “Happy Birthday” we boarded a plane. Going home.
I would wait for the pictures, access my Facebook, recapture the moments.
On Monday a foil-covered weight that’d anchored Eli’s balloons sat flush on my desk…
Next to a like one from Max’s balloons…next to a drawing by Lucy—
In front of me — inches from my phone — always…
I see it and smile and take it all in…
I synthesize Eli…
Sitting in Ohio.
Not missing a beat.