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Grudgingly, I took a look. Well, OK, it was a piece aimed right at the spot where she and I are as vulnerable as the underside of a turtle. Steinberg’s older son is 18, a high school senior. He’s a good kid. But he’s got one foot out the door. “How do I feel? Proud. Lucky,” writes Steinberg. He’s too adroit a writer to wring out the washcloth, but it’s clear his feelings are a lot more complicated than that.
Our daughters are in their 30s now, but the feeling doesn’t go away. The first grandchild—ours is less than two weeks old—makes it all the stronger. This little bundle of helpless, trusting innocence is how all children start out, and the process of growth, self-assertion, and distancing is relentless and remorseless. Still, it’s my daughter’s daughter I’m holding now, so she hasn’t gone all that far.
But for those who have seniors out there on the fields, it’s different. It’s ending. And we’re trying to hold it, or hoard it, and keep it.
