A plain brown box, delivered by UPS.

A surprise, she told me.

My very pregnant daughter, waiting, waiting, for her labor to start. Waiting, waiting, to have her baby.

And finally today she is headed to the hospital.

And I am waiting for the mail.

On the outside of the packaging is the brand name Skylight, and wrapped inside is a small digital picture frame.

The instructions say that, once connected to WiFi, the device will allow her to send us bunches of photos quickly and easily.

A new email address for a new member of the family.

Quickly, I plug it in, fire it up, and there she is, my beautiful daughter who lives in the mountains.

On the screen I see that she already has added a test photo. A shot of her walking her dog, Daisy, on the city park trail.

Hugely pregnant, bundled in fleece, she stands with thin rays of winter sunshine filtering through the pine trees, backlighting her thick, chestnut hair.

What streams from the frame is simply joy.

It is in the sun, the grin, the perk of the dog’s ears, and in the cast of light on her upturned face.

This present from her feels like a beacon for me, at a time when everything is distant, obscure, remote.

____________________

Remote.

Over the past three years, the word has been re-purposed – rebranded – to suggest flexibility, access, and even freedom.

But the term as adjective is actually defined as faraway, distant, removed, inaccessible, unreachable, marginal, and even lonesome.

____________________

A few days after the delivery, my daughter emails the very first birth photo, an image of her cradling her new baby boy.

I tap her face.

And, from the blurry background, I use my fingers to enlarge the fluorescent-lit hospital scene.

Nurses and neon green monitors. A jumbled bed, a nightstand with a water bottle, snacks, lip balm.

My son in law in the center.

A newborn, deep in flannel under his mama’s chin. Just a profile of ruddy cheek.

And my daughter.

I zoom in on the glisten of tears behind her glasses.

My heart squeezes tight with so many things.

_____________

I long to hold.

To smell the deep crease in the newborn nape. To grasp my girl’s shaking arm.

To be absorbed into the vivid room that is miles away, but more human and real than where I am.

The ache of being near, but unable to touch.

____________________

Later, I drift through the house through mindless chores.

Up and down the stairs with laundry, swiping the sponge over the counter, sweeping the deck.

Let the dog out, let him back in.

Forgetting what I am here for, in which room, at what task.

Still, the scroll of endless routine is different, charged, electric.

____________________

And I keep rounding back to the kitchen, where the rectangle of light, refracted and streamed across the miles, pulls me like a tide.

His bright little plum head, with crown of silken, russet hair.

Like a portrait on an easel, a masterwork of art that can be cherished but not touched.

But still he is here. His tiny pink arms folded inward, like he’s holding a secret tight to his heart.

He is my waxing moon.

____________________

Early morning, I shuffle to the kitchen and touch the skylight, bringing it to life.

It wakes as I sip my coffee and pause in the transparency of dawn. I push the pause button and study the new close-up.

Shiny black, opaque eyes, he stares out at me like he sees my face. He gives me a pouty scowl.

I examine his features.

______________

Overnight, I missed so much activity – he was busy waking and feeding, fussing and sleeping.

His dad vigilant, his mom full of every color in the printer.

I try to read her face, so pale with wonder and exhaustion.

I smile at Daisy’s square head, protectively resting on the nubbly blanket.

I study the round newborn face, again and again.

_____________________

My daughter’s little gift has illuminated my kitchen counter, my entire house, my heart, to my core.

It lights up my brain in the dark spaces that didn’t exist before COVID.

It fills the holes of distancing and loneliness.

I hold the entire gallery in my mind as memory, played on a loop, to keep, to savor, to absorb, like rays of sun on skin.

I am an archivist, a lover, a grandmother.