My heart has not been far from the tragic essay by recent Yale graduate Marina Keegan, who was in a fatal car accident days after this essay was published, days after her graduation. If you haven't read it, you must do so.
So tonight when I got home, I crawled onto the couch with my happy child and tried to quiet the rest of the world, silence everything but Luca. He began to sing, as he typically does. Only this time it wasn't "Wheels On Da Bus", or "Tinkle Tinkle Little Tar" - no this evening he was singing, clearly, a very beautiful version of "We Are Young" by Fun.
As a mom you tend to think of youth a lot. Or at least I do. I think about days gone by and my age today, and where my child will be when I'm 50. I think about the years that have passed and the delicacy within the contentedness of those hours I spent discovering the world.
Easily my heart pains, weeps even, as I think of this young thing sitting in my arms, singing powerful words he knows nothing about. These are precious moments I wish to bottle up, to drink when I'm feeling frail, to smell when the world kicks me in the gut. These are moments I try to make last. Longer. Longer. Bedtimes get pushed later, meals linger on. Story times become full on Broadway show reenactments, complete with intermissions (with ice cream of course).
Sitting in the couch, laughing at funny faces and talking about two inch toy cars found ownerless in sandboxes around the city. These are the precious seconds that mean more than anything. They are the opposite of loneliness. They mean everything.
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