I am thinking that ‘Grandma’ may be the very best word in the English language. My granddaughters came to visit on Sunday. Their parents in tow.  While the youngest is still a baby in arms, the oldest is two years and nine months. Old enough to plink away on the piano, navigate the swing set, know her way to the prairie – and to call me Grandma.

Grandma is delighted to run around after her everywhere. To catch her shooting off the slide a hundred times. To race with her to, and around, the prairie. To be as delighted as she is by every stick stepped over, every dried leaf discovered, every handful of pine needles picked up. To answer every ‘why?’ or ‘what?’ question she can pose.

We picked a bouquet of prairie flowers to give to her mama. After they packed up to leave, I found the bouquet still on the kitchen table. I’m delighted to have the bouquet as a reminder of a granddaughter visit. And to still hear the luscious sound of ‘grandma’ lingering in my ears.