A face the size of my palm has the power to completely enthrall me. It is Winona’s face, the face of my ten-day-old granddaughter, and it has become what in the world I want to see.

Winnie’s face is more expressive than much of what I read or even write. Her mouth purses into a heart, or stretches into a cavernous yawn, and I am captivated. Her two blond eyebrows rarely knit together, but when they do her concern or concentration or frustration rocks my grandparent world.

From the moment of her birth, Winnie’s eyes, now the color of slate, have been intent and thoughtful and serious. She’s a Brooklyn girl all right, a New Yorker to her core, and her fierce, intelligent eyes remind me of that.

People look at Winnie’s face and see other people: her mother, her father, her aunt, a far-flung relative. I see only Winnie, owning her face and all that it conveys, all the beauty it presents. And I am beginning to interpret the world by reading Winnie’s face. It’s telling a good story.