This moment

I know, in time I'll forget about this afternoon, but right at this very minute, it feels unforgettable -- like no matter how much time passes between here and eternity, a single reminder might transport me back to this moment.



Years from now, I might again feel the yellow, salt-kissed air of a September afternoon on the coast and become instantly enveloped by a replay of everything that's happening now.

In a decade or two, I'll be cooking dinner in the kitchen of some home, probably far from here, and the sound of my bare feet skimming the tile floor will sound off a chorus of tumbling laundry, fingers on the keyboard and jet engines droning from the airfield.

I hope I'll also hear just how angelic my little girl's voice sounds, echoing off of the wood fence in our backyard.



When I smell toasted sesame seeds and roasted sweet potatoes, I'll also remember the intoxicating perfume created by a combination of dried avocado and nap-time sweat, clinging to golden curls of my baby's downy hair.



Someday, when I hug the grown-up version of my middle son, I'll recall the smallness of his bony frame at age three -- when his entire form fit inside my hug.



In my mind's eye, I'll feel dirt-crusted fingers placing tiny pebbles and seashells in my waiting palms.

I'll see bright green grass-stained kneecaps and strands of caramel and chocolate hair spinning wildly mid-cartwheel against an azure sky.

I'll hear made-up songs and shouts of instructions from older sibling to younger sibling.

I'll smell fresh herbs from the garden and musty crayons from the living room.

I'll recall just how beautiful my life has been, if indeed I remember today at all.