Grand boy

His parents call him (e)Xavier; I call him Xavier (pronounced in French) or Xavi (with the Z); he says, "My name is Savier," and for me, there is much truth in that.  He saves me from all sorts of daily miseries.

Last night, Mom and Dad went to the new Star Trek movie, and Xavier stayed home to take care of Poppa. After an hour of watching bits of The Phantom Menace that was frequently interrupted by fingerprints and scratches, he brought the banana tree from the kitchen and gave it to Poppa. Then he climbed up, snuggled in, ate his bedtime banana, and shared the peel.  Outside, Bruin barked, so Poppa said, "Let Bruin in, please." When they came back, Xavi climbed up, laid his head on Poppa's shoulder and went right to sleep.

Everyone thinks he is a beautiful child, and that may be so. For me, it's when he takes my hand as we walk the dog, or when he climbs up to snuggle, that his beauty is most clear.

Shirl loved him, it seemed, from the moment of his conception.  She was an amazing grandma, "Grandmom," he called her.  She was forever putting him in my arms or setting him on my lap, making me feed him and change his diaper. Knowing my nature as an observer, she dragged me out of my sitting back and into pitching in.  She reminded me once again (necessary redundancy as I am a slow learner) that love is totally hands-on living. When I am missing her the most, his "I love you Poppa" is the only salve for my broken heart.