I color the gray from my hair, buy Swanson
canned soups, grow shorter each day
and wider each night. But you have done it
to me, daughter: created two beautiful boys
in less than two years,

forced me to look at myself in the mirror,
to face the wrinkles, the extra roll
around my middle, the ever-decreasing time
I have to know your life. I fought the thought
of grandmotherdom

your whole first pregnancy, looked up
synonyms for “grandmother”: Grammy,
Noonie, Mima, Nona, Bubbie, until
I finally chose Nana as just right.

Every time I talked to Eli,
did airplane spirals to his tummy,
sang Itsy Bitsy Spider, called myself Nana,
asked him who I was, asked him to repeat it,
he’d smile that sweet blue-eyed smile,
and call me nothing.

The other grandma he called “Grandma,”
the formerly distasteful term flowing
enthusiastically from his mouth, until jealousy
oozed over.

The day he called me Bahgahn,
began asking, “Bahgahn, r u ?”
I could not make the connection.
Where did this word come from — this name
so unique, so special, that it sounds like
Begin?