A Trace

    My grandson is five days old and, as a grandmother and a writer, I feel a little guilty that I have not yet written a poem about him. I have already expressed how incredibly moving it was for me to find out Lee's middle name was Trace. And since very few of a baby's personality traits are revealed in the first week of life, (most infants are deceptively calm at that age) I think this first poem for my grandson will be about his name and his namesake.

A Trace

 

Oh grandson snuggled in my arms,

I know you're not my son reborn,

but your parents, in an act of grace,

gave you the middle name of Trace.

The nickname that I called my son

who died before you were yet born.

Your uncle would be glad to see

a nephew in this family.

He would have loved to have a boy

to teach the things that he enjoyed,

like finding lures the fish would bite,

or tools that fit the job just right.

 

Like Grandpa, Trace was one of those   

skilled to build or fix anything he chose--

except the hole he left behind

in our family's hearts and minds.

 

So you will have to wait a while

to hear his voice and see his smile,

 but though he's far from our embrace,

within your name he left a trace.

12/28/24