Above the ground
Not very far
The swing reaches
Two long arms
High above
To the first strong branch
But can climb no higher

Until the child comes
In the twilight
As the sun hangs
Reluctant
To leave entirely
Painting the clouds
Rose and gold

The child sits
But not to stay
Quietly in one place
No 
Hands grasp, holding 
The swing’s long arms
Feet stir, scraping
Earth as
The child swings

Up to the rose and gold west
Back through the brown earth
Feet kiss the ground in passing
Back up to the ever darkening east
The child swings

Back and forth

And the swing shouts
For the joy
Of its long arms
Swinging, singing
Free

I remember
Letting my toddlers choose their own clothes
Even when the choices were absurd
Because their growth
Was more important
Then their looks
Or even their comfort

So sometimes
They wore rain boots
On sunny days
Shorts on snowy days
And always
Were colorfully mismatched

I think of my grown children
One has not spoken to me in years
I have a granddaughter I have never seen
One is more comfortable texting than talking
One I see regularly but not often

I think of the years I spent
Becoming comfortable with that
Reality
Not the fairytale of through the woods
Over the hills
To grandma’s house
Smelling of camphor
(what the hell is camphor anyway?)
And homemade cookies

I think of my pleasure
That each of my children
Enjoy their lives
Never trouble free
But less troubled, perhaps,
Than their own childhoods
Now with their own
Families
Their own
Stability

I think of my prayers
Every time I am tempted
To be envious
Of the Facebook stories
Of other grandparents

I think of my prayers
Affirming my love 
For my own children
Praying my gratitude
For their happiness
Enjoying my accomplishment
In three wonderful adults

Then I half remember
Jesus’s parable or story or something
Ending in a question
Something like
If an earthly parent would do so for their child
How much more will your heavenly parent do for you?

And I wonder
Is God perhaps less interested in world peace
Than in my own peace?