I got dressed today in my usual style. Some would say no style, but here’s what I have to say about that. I’m one of those people who think you can never have too many black turtlenecks. I love black clothing, charcoal clothing, pale gray clothing, and white (no beige) clothing. I don’t like prints—flowers, geometric designs, or really any designs. I will wear polka dots and sometimes muted plaid, but that’s about as far as I’m willing to go. Today I wore my black yoga pants, a sleeveless black turtleneck and my consignment store purchase—a pearl gray, Talbot’s top that could have been a tent, although a very soft one. Boring, right? Okay, here’s why. I don’t really care if people do or don’t admire my outfit. I want them to look at me—at my face, in my eyes, at my smile. I want to be seen and known, and the only way that can happen is if you look at my face. Read what you see there. Nothing shows off a face like a black turtleneck. (Especially when you want to cover up your neck. I, too, feel bad about my neck, just like Nora Ephron did. It got old faster than I did. But even when it was young and supple, I still wore turtlenecks, so there’s that.) To be fair, black and gray look much better on me now that my hair is more or less silver with some gray, but I wore it even when my hair was dark brown. I might be lazy; maybe that’s why I don’t bother with “outfits” and just stick with tops and pants, but with my preferred color scheme I never have to wonder if they match. Am I exaggerating? Of course. I have jeans. And I have solid colored tops in jewel tones. But my go-to is black and gray. And my reasoning? I’m sticking with my story: look at me, not my clothes.

Our granddaughter Mia is twenty months old. She loves both of us—I get my share of “Nana” while she reaches for me—but she seems to be especially fond of her Papa. He’s limited, physically, and needs to sit much more than he stands. She has gotten him to get up and go with her by reaching out her hand, and she’s managed to even get him to get down on the floor with her, so we had no idea she was sensitive to his need to be seated more than not. She is, after all, a toddler with a limited vocabulary. She is also, however, a very astute observer and can follow complicated directions, so we know she understands a lot more than she is able to verbalize. One day recently Wyatt and Mia spent a few hours here, and then Corey and Doug came to get them. We all (except Ed) ended up in the back yard, and Mia spent a little time on her swing before she asked to be unlocked to get down. Corey got her out of the swing, and we all called for Ed, who hadn’t come out. He came to the back door, and we asked him to join us. He said, “I haven’t got shoes on.” Mia said, “shoes” several times, and then she chugged her chubby little legs up the back ramp and took him by the hand and led him into the house. She headed toward the basket at the front door where we drop our shoes and he told her no, that his shoes were in the bedroom under his chair, and she went and got them, brought them to him and waited while he put them on. Then she stuck out her hand and led him back outside. He went down the ramp and stood at the back gate watching the activity while she came back into the yard with the rest of us. And then she did the most amazing thing. She walked over to where we have two plastic chairs and picked one of them up by the arms and carried it without dragging it or dropping it all the way over to him. All two feet of her. We watched her carrying that chair to her Papa in awe, first that she could do it, and second that she would do it—that she had that great a sensitivity and understanding that he needed to sit down if he was going to join us. We were struck dumb at first and then of course told her how sweet that was. He thanked her multiple times, but she just went about her business, as if of course that’s what you do when you love your Papa.