I was there when she walked down an aisle of sorts at her nursery school graduation, the type of ceremony in which little tykes wear miniature caps and gowns, stare out at the sea of faces, and in a few cases try to bolt.
But our oldest granddaughter, the feisty Hannah, stood her ground and with a toss of her blonde curls, took her place as if she’d been born to face an audience and sing songs.
If memory serves me, she also was handed a little diploma with a pink ribbon tied around it.
There was something so ineffably sweet — — and sad — — about this milestone all those years ago that I actually wept.
Nursery school had been a kind of cocoon. Kindergarten, too, but a bit less so.
But “big school,” as Hannah called it — — the one that involved inching out into the real world — — was a bit more serious. I know this granddaughter had some anxieties about that. Fortunately, she got through the first-day jitters, and sailed on to middle school at the appropriate time.
And her grandfather and I logged several more graduations along the way, formal and otherwise. Then, on a June evening, four years ago, we listened to our granddaughter give the “class address,” as it is known at her high school. She was to reflect on the collective feelings of her graduating class.
That night, Hannah spoke of the challenge of change. She confessed her own anxieties about going off to college, and probably spoke for 99 percent of her college-bound classmates who were feeling the same jitters.
I will never forget standing on the lawn of Hannah’s home on that late August night, her last at home before college, holding on to this granddaughter for dear life, and trying desperately not to sob.
Her childhood, it seemed, had gone by in warp speed, and now she was off to a place called Barnard College in New York City, the women’s college of Columbia University. The notion of this suburban kid plunked down in Manhattan was heart-stopping enough!
It was a giant step, and that night, I held it together for her sake. But I cried all the way home.
Passages are tough on parents — and on grandparents, too. And this one felt monumental. Four years seemed an eternity.
But then at our stage of life, my husband and I are startled by how a year feels more like a month, and a month feels like a day. The math doesn’t compute — but the emotions do.
And it came to pass that on a recent spring day in the sullen month of May this year — the month of little sunshine, and much rain — we found ourselves standing outside of the gigantic Radio City Music Hall, where Barnard’s 2016 commencement was being held.
The graduates themselves, 613 strong, dressed in pale blue gowns and mortar boards, arrived in a convoy of buses. Their joy and spirit spilled out onto Broadway, that avenue of so many dreams.
In that sea of blue, we caught a glimpse of our first grandchild, now a tall, sure young woman truly ready to make that leap into the world.
But not before the strains of Pomp and Circumstance resonated, and hundreds of young women, heads held high, created a sea of blue.
There was something surreal about seeing this assemblage, hearing the Barnard choir sing beautiful songs, and then hearing speeches delivered by bright and poised young women in strong, clear voices, and by guest speakers with dazzling ideas about women’s lives as they may look in the future.
As I tried to focus on their words, a thousand images flashed: Hannah in sun suits, on her first two-wheeler bike, in ballet class. Then there was prom Hannah, first-job Hannah, and now this college graduate, ready to seek her unique destiny.
In the mob scene after the recessional of Barnard graduates hit the street, we spotted Hannah, blonde hair flying as she ran toward us.
Yes, I cried as I hugged her tight. And there were tears in her eyes, too.
There was nothing — — and everything — — to say.
And on the way back home, my husband and I rode in the silence that comes from being totally overwhelmed.
Yes, we were now the grandparents of a newly minted college graduate. And we didn’t need to say what we felt.
That we wish our firstborn granddaughter Godspeed as she continuers her journey to what we pray is a glorious and meaningful future. ••
