A cluster of grandchildren
three boys
aged one to six
has descended upon our house
with attendant parents
and thickets of pencils
crayons, stitched and cast little toys
paper, musical instruments
diversions, digressions and questions
One we can understand and converse with
except when he speaks Gavotte
the language of the other dimension
he has contacted or invented
The other his brother
we understand during moments of
lucidity, when our brains can tune in
to his strange incessant banter
frustration, curiosity and invention
The third is delightfully imitating conversation
but has not discovered his rosetta stone
into our world
in which he staggers
like a tiny drunken uncle
Gramma listens loves and understands
more than other mortals
but gave up vacuumed like mad
when they went tobogganing
I look forward to their visits like mad
but sigh tearful relief when they leave.
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The flow
Maybe the relief will be lessened following summer visits when the little guys can spend more time outdoors.
This poem invokes such an unreasonable nostalgia for the pitter-patter, the mess, the noise…. I particularly like the invented language, “Gavotte.” Also the tiny drunken uncle.
Lovely. Thanks!
I feel even sadder when they leave the cottage. Granted we are not in each other’s faces so much at the cottage (unless it is raining), but goodbyes are still difficult mixtures of emotion because—while it is a relief to return to the simple familiar and relaxed order of twoness—it is still sad to see them all go.