I was sitting there, taking a bite of my banana and I thought of him and how he says bananas make his mouth itchy and stinging lately. I was driving. And right then I sobbed, silently and so unexpectedly…so abruptly I didn’t have time to even think before I gasped. Because right at that moment I remembered the first time I held him. The first moment I kissed his tiny, precious face. The first moment I smelled his new baby skin. That giant ache you get in your throat when you do the ugly cry…it nearly knocked me off my feet that morning.
The other night at dinner we were talking about the things I liked to eat when I was pregnant with each of them. I ate strawberries and chef boyardee when I was pregnant with Kate…black licorice for Henry, and lots of french fries and ice cream when I was pregnant with Ella.
What about me he says.
I don’t remember.
I’m the forgotten child he says.
Never. Never ever. Your cells became knit with mine long before you were born.
But there is the fear of forgetting…forgetting something precious you said…how your shiny hair bounced up and down in the back when you walked, or how your belly used to stick out past your ribs. I fear forgetting that your first word was “quack,” or how you used to like to wear a tie and dress pants to preschool, or that your favorite song was the Little Drummer Boy, which you called Rum Pa Pum.
And now…I don’t want to forget you now…how soft and fuzzy your hair feels. How you say “wow, Mom” when you disapprove of something I’ve said. How soft your embrace is every morning. And that whistling thing you do all the time now. (Why?)
Tiny little memories as countless as the stars in the sky, Will. You will never be forgotten.