Wrapped in Time
Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, enhancing the beauty of the medieval church with its tall walls and high ceilings.
Row after row of relatives and friends, seated in pews, patiently await our arrival.
You may not be aware of it little one, but this is a special day for our family. And a very special day for you.
Cradling you tenderly in her arms, your mother takes her place beside your father at the font, while I encircle myself around your tiny little body.
You’re protected now.
My own baby daughter was once safe and tenderly cradled in my arms. But that was before the plague came and then nobody was safe. So many lost their lives. So many families. My son, the lone survivor of ours.
I wasn’t able to protect my baby girl. But I vowed then to protect those who came after. Those who went on to live full and happy lives.
It was a beautiful service and you made not a sound, not even when holy water was poured over your forehead. Unlike your father and others that came before him. I can still recall their cries resonating around the church on their special day.
Spring sunshine warms the air as we stand on the church steps, waiting for our photographs to be taken. You, me, your mother and father first. After which, we’ll be surrounded by smiling faces, all wanting to share this happy moment.
“What a lovely christening shawl,” a voice enthuses. “How very delicate it is.”
“It’s been in my family for centuries,” your father explains. “Traditionally wrapped around generations of babies.”
Gently, he runs his fingers over the soft ecru lace. Can he feel my presence? Or has it been dimmed by time?
“What stories it could tell,” he muses.
Ah yes, my darling 21st-century grandson, what stories indeed…