Life flushes his nose, cheeks, with flaming warmth when he slips back
inside, to rub his hands by the fire. Words, fragments of stories,
tumble out of him, and I nod, trying to etch him in my mind like this
(do all mothers do this? Memorize moments?) For some reason, I don’t
trust ink and paper, computerized sensors of cameras. I carve it down
in synapses and neurons— in heart fibers—before he, who he is now,
is gone, mellow voice turned deep, untried hands grown long and deeply
lined, trenched with days.
I do it too, constantly. Sunday, while stealing a rare nap with the baby (toddler, but shh), rain beating down, book abandoned on the pillow: I could not stop looking at her, breathing her in. Flushed cheeks, purple shadows beneath the blurred black lashes, her face now Jane’s, now Rose’s, now a flash of Scott. Now that picture of me when I was her age, something about the o of her mouth. The curl peeking out behind one ear, the weight of her head on my arm, the gentle sigh of her breath. How many more times will I get to live that moment? Just like Ann, I try to fix these moments in my mind, try to memorize each detail. But I never can call them back fully, not unless I’ve written them down. That’s why I blog, I guess.
Her meditation on the fleetingness of these delicious days is some of the most beautiful writing I’ve seen on the internet, ever.
Best. Present. Ever.
The Art of the Warm Welcome
Saturday in These Parts