August.
It’s young, and it’s old.
It’s taking a deep breath, because July—with all its hot, restless days—is gone.

It’s the cooler mornings now, listening to roosters battle their voices in the quiet.
It’s the softer evenings, when I sit on my porch and look up at a silver, shining moon.

August—my grandson’s birth month.
He’s a year old now.
The middle of these days can still burn hot, but the heat slips away slowly, melting into dusk when the sun disappears.

I try to remember life before this baby was born.
Maybe my mind doesn’t want to.
Without Cedric, there would be a gap, a hollow, an empty space.
And maybe I don’t want any empty spaces in my heart—so I color them in with this little boy, as if he’s been here all along.

I once had two babies of my own.
But being a grandmother is not the same as being a mother.
There’s a thread now—a wire—running through my heart, my veins.
It anchors in my mind, wraps itself like a vine around my hands and arms.
Not taking over, but adding everything.

I might not be making sense.
Am I making sense?

Cedric has his whole life ahead of him.
He can do anything, be anything.
It’s up to him.

But I want to protect him.
And I can’t.
That’s not how life works—not here.

I want him to only know happiness, but even that is impossible.
Without tears, without heartache, we can’t understand the real shape of joy.
It’s two sides of a coin—sorrow and happiness.
I just hope he has far more joys than sorrows.

I’d like to take him horseback riding.
I wonder if he’ll love horses the way I do—and if not, what else will capture his heart?
He’s already been to my heart’s home, Colorado.
He’s touched the Dolores River, felt its strength, its coldness, its heartbeat.

His parents take him on adventures, painting colors into his world.
Someday, he may not want us to take him anywhere.
Someday, he might pack a backpack and head for Europe.

The thought makes me cheer for him: Go, Cedric, go! See the world, live it all!
And still—another part of me whispers: Don’t go, Cedric. Don’t go.
But he will never hear me say those words.

To hold someone back, to keep them close so they won’t wander, is to clip a bird’s wings.
Then they can’t fly—only hop around, straining toward the sky because that’s what they were made to do.
And when they can’t, sadness creeps in—heaviness, fear, or both.
Don’t go far, you’ll get hurt. Stay close to what you know.
No. That’s not right.
Let’s never clip our baby’s wings.

In the animal world, mothers and fathers guard their young.
They protect, they teach.
The little ones watch and learn and grow.
Then, suddenly, they’re on their own.
And the cycle begins again.

Until Cedric is old enough to want the world without us, I hope we see some of life’s miracles together:

A baby chicken hatching.
A calf being born.
A sunset over the ocean.
A sunrise spilling over a canyon.
Coyotes calling in the desert.
A school of fish gliding beneath the sea.
The aurora borealis painting the sky.
A rose opening its petals.
The hum of a hummingbird’s wings over a flower.

I want to show him fat bugs crawling along sticky sunflower stalks.
The feel of mud between our toes.
The sound of crickets in the dark.
The small heartbeat of a kitten in our hands.
The freedom of riding a horse across the desert so fast that nothing else matters.
The wind high in the mountains.
Stars when the city is hundreds of miles behind us.
The piercing call of an eagle.
The crackle of a campfire.

Yes—these are some of the miracles I hope to share with Cedric.

I thank God for this miracle—this boy, my grandson.
Cedric cracked my heart wide open and showed me treasures I didn’t know I’d been hiding.
It feels like a birth—my heart’s birth.

And to Cedric’s parents:
On a clear night, go outside.
Look up—past the moon, past the stars, past galaxy after galaxy.
That’s how far my gratitude reaches—not just for Cedric, but for everything.

Cedric just cracked me open so I could finally see.