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The tiny a baby seems impossibly frail, fragile. The woman beside him is young, pretty, tired. I can feel her, feel her desperation and fear, but also her power. She is learning how to mother. Her hand are becoming both quick and gentle. Her breasts are softening from the initial shock of learning to feed someone else from her body, from her bones.

And, she is in love. My Jimmy comes everyday to sit with her and my little grandson. He comes every day with a scared but determined gate. He hates the hospital. He wants to run away. But he's drawn to her, day after day, and eventually he's drawn to him to, drawn to his sweet small hands and the hope of life. The miniature struggle that encompasses it all.

Breath, eat, sleep, breath, eat, sleep.

From here I can finally appreciate the simple beauty.

Now I see it.

And I long with a pull harder than anything to have my time over. But all I have is this small family and when I see them start to falter, start to doubt their ability, start to pull away from each other into the outside world. I wrap my feeble nothingness around them and push into their loves. I push with all my strength. The strength of all failed grandmothers.