I was snuggled up close to Bo tonight after prayers, nuzzling his neck, trying to breathe in my baby and somehow not the rank smell of my baby’s loveys. It’s tricky, this.
I want a back scwatch, he said.
And as I started in quick circles on his back, he broke into the biggest, stupidest grin. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth– pure delight. His face was an inch from my face, so I tried to memorize it bit by bit.
A few rounds later– again! again!-– and he was satisfied. I traced the slope of his nose with my finger and punctuated it with a boop on the end.
I told my friend Brooks earlier today that I think I need help with my picture storage problem. Not like, an external hard drive, which I might also need, but like professional help for my irrational aversion to deleting pictures from my computer.
If I delete pictures, I reasoned, I will forget my life.
And I know this is true. But I know even the picture is not the same as the moment. Reading the words that describe the moment isn’t the same either. They’re pretty close, but not the same. And the difference between the moment and a vague recollection of the moment is where my heart breaks.
It pains me that in a few years, I will only hazily recall the shape of his tiny shoulders turned to face me while we say prayers. Such is the condition of parenthood, I know. Or the state of loving anything that changes and grows by necessity.
I was still beside him with my eyes closed, trying not to feel sad for myself and my limited capacity to remember, when I heard him cackle.
I opened my eyes. He had one finger up each nostril.