Graying
February 2026
My granddaughter, not yet two
Sits on my lap.
Gwen is intent on a photo of
Fifteen women, settled into child’s pose
On long extended mats at a
Costa Rican yoga retreat.
She places a delicate pointer finger
On me in the image, my face down,
My arms outstretched on the mat.
“Nana,” she intones sagely.
She turns her face up to mine
She locks eyes with me.
She touches her own hair.
“Yes,” mine is the only white hair in the photo.
I am transported to so many years ago
Standing at the back of some church
In Lincoln, NE waiting for
Some groomsman I can’t remember
To escort me down the aisle
Ahead of my friend, the bride.
Scanning the backs of wedding guests’ heads
I am looking for my parents,
I search again for my father’s distinctive dark hair.
Suddenly, I spot my mother and her
Freshly frosted coif
Sitting next to a gray-haired man.
It is my father.
I am stunned.
Suddenly, he is old.
Today, Gwennie, nestling against me
Is telling me all about this photo in
Her own language and I,
Now nearly ten years older than
My father on that day in Lincoln,
Adjust her position in my lap,
Inhale the sweet toddler scent from her head,
Smooth down a bit of her downy hair
And feel not so old at all.
