I want to remember how yesterday, in the quiet of a rare peaceful homework time, I heard the hum of water running.
“Little One?” I called. “What are you doing?” He was washing the red bits of crayon off of his yellow crayon. His little nubbin hands wrapped around that fat yellow thing. So assured.
I want to remember how our wiry oldest one pulled TWO! new library books out of his bag. His words spilling out so fast.
And we broke the teacher’s rule. One whole book start to finish before the next one. But that shelved book smell and the crinkle of the cellophane wrap and the promise of adventure were too much. I want to remember the bright blue of his eyes and his smattering of freckles all filled with the the hope of something new.
I want to remember how it feels to be close after sharp words and bruised egos. When the hurt is still raw, it helps more than anything to be close-pacing my breathing to my husband’s.
I want to remember how 11 years have changed him from wisp to solid and how he breathes so steady. I want to tuck away how a morning walk told me that it wasn’t all that important and the soft breeze of the fan felt fresh when I said no to hurt and yes to healing.
I am storing up. Stashing away the ruby toned moments that I so often overlook in my listing and in my perfectioning. They sparkle, shimmer, shore up.