I used to watch the golden sunset with you and make sand castles. I used to play with your hair and make you laugh. Remember when we used to stay up late during the summer and sit out by the fire, staring up at the stars? I would ask you about the wonders of the world and you would answer them as best as you could. We used to make faces at each other and stick out our tongues. When you were sick, we’d play doctor, and I’d read to you: remember how mad I used to get because you’d fall asleep? I miss those popsicles you used to make for me—you know, the ones with the little pieces of fruit? I used to ask what your favorite color was, and I always thought you’d say yellow, but you’d say, “Purple because it’s the color of lavender.”

            Soon, Mom, I’m going to leave you to find my place in this world, and all of those days will only be memories that I’ll share with my kids and they’ll ask “What’s wrong, Mommy,” when I start crying. And I’ll tell them, “Nothing, Mommy’s just happy.”