It would be a terrible thing for our memories to fail. To forget what it felt like when G had hiccups in utero. To forget how he patted my face when I nursed him. To forget the first time I kissed Mary. How small she seemed. How surprised I am, over and over, by how small she is.
Swimming naked at night. Leaping off a roof. The way it feels to pedal a bicycle, to climb a tree, to dance. To flex your muscles. The ache in your lungs when you run in the winter. The unsteadiness before a presentation. To look up in the Sistine Chapel. How close I came to drowning.
What it felt like when my heart broke. To sit with the pieces afterward and repair myself. The first time I heard the Cure. The first time I played guitar. How my life changed when I started to cry without reservation.
The moment I stopped being ashamed. Just let that shit fall away and left it behind. To marry. To vow and kiss and wear a ring. To wake every morning with joy. The dogs skittering. The inevitable Americano. Those beautiful yellow weeds on the hillside.
The thing that cannot be categorized is quality of life. What is the quality of your life? How often do you sing yourself? How often are you still, and grateful?
This morning, Gavin said, “I’m going to give you two kisses.” And then, a moment later, added, “OK. One more.” There isn’t enough of this. Do you see? There isn’t enough. Remember to notice. Notice everything.