Someday, we’ll fight.
I can’t imagine it now. I don’t really want to. But observation tells me it happens. Experience tells me it happens.
You’ll say and do things that hurt me. I’ll probably do the same. We’ll argue. We may shout. We may slam doors. We may fall into silence absent of peace.
I can’t imagine it now. And I don’t really want to.
But still, it will probably happen.
And when it happens, I’ll think back to today.
I’ll think back to you sitting in my closet, trying on my shoes. “Mama? When I get older, can I wear these shoes?”
I’ll think back to you reaching for my hand as we walk down the stairs, to the park, through the kitchen, home from school.
I’ll remember that you wanted our clothes to match and our hair to match. That you’d only be finished eating if I was. I’ll remember that we played together. That you restored my belief in magic and rekindled my imagination and that with you and for you I began a quest for the fun and the good and the happy. And I hope you’ll remember that too.
I’ll remember these days when big, brown eyes looked up at me.
“Mommy, guess what?”
“What, my love?”
“You’re my favorite mommy.”
And I’ll try to remember that the fights and the words and the silences are not unprecedented. That even in these days when you readily proclaim, unprompted, that I am your favorite, we still argue. You get angry at me and you tell me so. I get angry at you and do the same.
But then the time passes, and we move on.
And minutes later, I’m still your favorite mommy.
And you’re still my favorite girl.
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