Sam and I are driving into town. It's rare, a getaway like this, if only to the grocery store. We're chatting about impending snow.
"I hope it does snow," he says. "Just once. Before spring."
I agree. But I'm a summer gal. So soon we're talking about warm weather and swimming and going barefoot and bike riding and just soaking in the sun.
"Seems like the winter's going fast," Sam says.
"Doesn't seem like months ago that we were swimming and playing in the sun."
I look at my boy. He has that far-off look. Oh no, another one like me. Another one hard-wired with a looking-backward heart.
"Time moves fast," I say.
"It's too bad," Sam says, "that we can't remember every single day."
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"I just wish I could remember every day. I forget." He looks out the window at the farmland rushing by. "You know how it is. Lots of days pass. But we just remember the bold print stuff."
"The bold print stuff?" I ask.
"Ya. You know. The important stuff. The parts that would be in bold print."
I need to watch the road but I want my eyes to rove over this little kid. I want to remember his eyes and the sweet curve of his jaw and the way his hands are splayed over his jeans.
Soon I feel like crying. I'm desperate to grasp it all.
"Do you think, Mom, when we get to heaven, we can ask God questions?"
"I don't know," I say.
"If I can, I'll ask Him why I can only remember the bold print days."
Lord, please store the preciousness of these days in my heart. Let me live each day as a bold print day. Amen.