We had an empty open Thursday last week, so K and I walked to Target in the unseasonably warm sunshine. It was an unremarkable walk in all respects. She cheerfully trotted beside me, selected sticks and banging them together, replacing them with other sticks and banging those. We hid them in the planter while we shopped and found them when we finished. We only forgot one thing on our list but remember several things I hadn’t written down. We chatted and held hands and arrived home an hour and half later just in time for lunch.
In fact, it was so unremarkable that I am certain I will forget we ever went.
I will forget that we sang off-key. That we jumped over bricks and shadows as though they were lava. That her hand was once so small that it fills my whole palm, and that I must consciously be careful not to squeeze its moist softness too hard, because it is so very small. I will forget that there were once such simple times when she was still below my waist and sweetly innocent, and when I am tall and wise and beautiful to her, the most desired companion.
Except now I won’t forget. Of the many moments that will get–or have gotten–lost in the rapid flow of our days, this one I’m keeping.