Waiting, in a liminal space, on the threshold, betwixt and
between. This is where I find myself now, in mid September, waiting for my
first grandchild to be born. His due date is the 22nd, ten days
away. The doctors thought he would be early, but he is in the safe zone now.
Every time the phone rings or beeps with a text message, I jump, wondering if
this will be the call from my son, telling me that labor is underway. And then
I will return to waiting, for news about his wife and the birth, for when I can catch a flight to England
to meet my grandson, my next generation.
