I will forget today.
I have no pictures of today–only the ones etched on my mind, ones that will fade quickly or blend in with the grainy images of countless days such as this.
Mornings biding our time with friends.
Mid-days dominating playgrounds.
Afternoons making sand angels.
Evenings postponing bedtime.
I will not remember the specifics of your smile in the backseat of the car, parked while we ate a sundae, the cars whirring by on highway 1A.
I will barely remember you pooping in the shade of a tree, the wipes locked in our car a mile away.
But someday–one day in the future that will feel a lifetime and a sneeze away from this moment– I will rub a sand grain out of my eye, and I will hear the faint echo of the laugh you tucked into that sand angel, and I will feel the warmth of the smile that you cast into the air today, today, as we sat on the beach, you, my gorgeous babies, at the edge of where the land meets the sea, and at the edge of where my pounding heart was meeting my fading memory.
Where all of my zeal to make time stand still is washed over by a low tide, rumbling in and back out again, the process of erosion creeping slowly over my mind, my mind once sharp, now surrendering to the waves, refining all of this into sea glass.
From some other day that I barely remember.