Fingerprints

The grandchildren and their parents left yesterday after a weekend visit. There is comfort in the routine that Doug and I so easily slip back into following one of these visits, but the delightful memories linger and so too the fingerprints. The fingerprints are mostly left on the glass of the French doors leading to the back yard. A wise neighbor, a grandmother herself, once told me to leave the fingerprints as a reminder of the grandchildren’s visit. She said she left them for several days, providing her with great remembrances. And so, I too never fail to leave the fingerprints.

No longer are they the prints of a toddler, two and three feet off the steps. No, the prints are quite a bit higher now and not as many. The maturing hands so very often have found the door knobs now, but a few of the fingerprints are there, and I will leave them for the week. What fun we had building a fire in the firepit on the garden terrace and roasting marshmallows for our s’mores. Each grandson had his own style for how a marshmallow should be roasted, some smoldering, others catching the flames to become their own torch. A small entry into the personal style that each is creating for himself, as distinctive as the fingerprints of each.

As grandparents we can only hope that we leave an imprint on their lives, and certainly that we leave memories. Here’s hoping we leave fingerprints that don’t get cleared away for some time.