Love, handed on down the line

And the next morning, this beautiful young woman, a relative I have known since she was 3 years old, and who still lets me call her “My Little Xena,’’ packed a diaper bag, strapped her 7-month-old in his car seat, and headed to me from Hudson, N.Y.

She’d said on the phone that she might spend the night and break the trip up into two days. So I cleaned the room she used to sleep in when she was small and spent vacations here, and I changed the sheets in the crib, which now shares that room. But she wound up not sleeping over because Aidan is teething and was fussy and didn’t nap, and she was afraid that he would be awake and crying all night.

But I think the real reason she drove home is that as much as she loved being here, she missed Aidan’s dad.

The kid in her wanted to stay. I made her clam dip and a grilled cheese sandwich and potato skins with bacon - all her favorite things. And we talked and talked. And then we did what we did every afternoon the year she spent a summer here: We walked downtown. Only this time instead of just us two, we pushed a baby carriage.

We stopped across the street to see Al and Katherine, who shook their heads and said what I think every time I look at Xena, “When did you grow up? You were 13 just last week!’’

And then they turned to the baby. “Will you look at him? How old is he? He’s almost as big as you!’’ They beamed. Xena beamed. It was like old times.

We walked down the street past the little, white store, past the Getty station, then stopped at Dr. Batchelder’s, another thing we used to do when Xena was small. Once, in Dr. Batchelder’s backyard, when Xena was 11, a crow flew into her hair. Usually unflappable, she shrieked not just because she was stunned, but because the night before we’d stayed up late and watched the film “The Birds.’’

The crow was friendly - Dr. Batchelder had trained it - but we didn’t know this. When he explained, after Xena stopped screaming, we laughed and laughed. And we laughed just as hard the other day standing in his yard, remembering.

Dr. Batchelder, like Al and Katherine, looked at Xena, and shook his head. “How long ago was that summer?’’

“Twelve years ago,’’ Xena said.

“Twelve years,’’ he repeated, stunned.

Anne King’s was our last stop: Savoy Spa, where Xena and her sisters got their fingers and toes painted every time they came to town. “Come in,’’ she always said. “Let me see those fingers. Go on down back. There’s some cookies in a jar. Do you want a lollipop, too?’’

No cookies and candy this day, no sisters, and no time to get toes polished. But “oohs’’ and “ahs.’’ And “He’s beautiful.’’

Aidan slept a little on the walk home, but when we got back, he was still fussy, so Xena held him. And as I watched this child I love love her child, I thought about how love is passed on and around, up and down, back and forth, how it stretches and grows, how it is the reason for laughter and painted toes and pet crows and oohs and ahs and grilled cheese sandwiches and babies and adults’ smiles.

And how driving six hours or six days can feel like nothing because of it.