How much of these days will you remember?
How much of these days will I remember? They pass by speed-of-light style. One glance in the wrong direction and they're gone.
But sometimes I stop. And sit. And see.
Which is what you do a lot of the time. You stop. You sit. You see.
I could learn a lot from you.
Your busyness is all about play. It's fun. I wonder, will you remember me as the mom who didn't know how to have fun?
When you think back on these moments, will you feel the love I've tried to give you, though maybe not in the way all mothers do.
I am not goofy. Or often playful. I am routinely rigid and sometimes boring.
But my heart fills when I look at you. That feeling writers try to capture but no one ever quite has.
Like your insides are swollen and the pulsing of your lifeline pounds in your chest, between your ears, in your veins...
and you realize in that moment what you have is something you never want to lose.
It ups the stakes, really.
It scares me sometimes how much I love you and how hard it is to take the time to make sure you know. Do you feel it? In my hugs? In my smiles? In my sitting with you in the quiet to watch the train go by?
What will you remember of these days, I wonder?
Doubtful that it will be my bad posture or my penchant for not wearing makeup.
I hope it's the things I intend for you to remember. I hope it's maybe indescribable. Like the writers, you can't find the words...
...but deep down, you know you were well loved.