It’s tough to see the age of twenty-three from this far away, tougher still to remember if I knew then what my firstborn seems to know now thirty-eight years into her own story. Precious each life we’re blessed to bring into this world; precious still the bond between mother and child.
I suspect my daughter Jennifer has no idea at this very moment that the bond with her daughter Grace will morph into something akin to monster approximately 13 years out and then coalesce into an entirely different shape, something foreign, something better, something no longer hers.
They’re never really ours, these children life bestows. They’re our chance to be more than self-serving, more than the moment, more than just a single firefly dancing at dusk.