It was just a moment in time, really.
I haven’t thought about it much for fourteen years, but suddenly, it came flooding back. Then, you were my only child, bundled up for the day: jean overalls that snapped on the legs, sturdy white leather shoes to help you run faster than I ever imagined.
It was just a fleeting instant in time.
Chunky red plaid fleece jacket, softly lined, hood to cover your flaxen hair; you never liked hats. I think it was November, early snow. Ten tiny fingers gently captured snowflakes.
It was just a snapshot, really.
We walked out on the dock, just the three of us. Our family almost complete. Your gleeful squeals filled the silence with joy, envious couples glancing our way.
It was just an instant, then it was over. Inhale. Exhale.
We stopped, you posed, we snuggled you between our legs, holding you tightly. Never wanting to let go. You raised your face to the sky and grinned with rapture.
It was just one moment, really. But I remember every detail.