I know who they are when they forget.
Tonight they reached down and hugged me. A chin rough with stubble scuffed my cheek and a cheerful man voice echoed, “Love ya, Mom” in Mandarin as he wandered off to bed. Long arms reached down to circle around tired shoulders when the younger boy made amends before bedtime and my soul found rest after a day of wrestling with testosterone and sugar highs.
Tomorrow will come. Another day to remember. Another moment to savor or to endure.
This is, by far, the hardest thing I have ever loved doing.
Thank you, Abba. For these gifts.
Help me to remember.