Silver Bay

That’s what they don’t tell you about old age: it doesn’t stop you acting like a young fool.

Sometimes I can see her mother, my little sister, in Liza. She’s there in the way Liza tilts her head when she’s thinking, in her thin strong fingers, in her smile when she sees her daughter. That’s when I know my niece’s presence here, and Hannah’s, is a blessing. That there is an elemental pleasure in seeing the continuation of a family line, a joy that we who are childless might not otherwise experience. It’s that jolt of recognition when suddenly you see not only her mother but your great-uncle Evan, your grandmother, perhaps even yourself. I have been grateful for this knowledge, these last five years. Those glimpses of familial brow, frown or giggle have made up, in some small way, for the loss of my sister.