He sat between us pulling at blades of grass and she watched his every move, her smile deep and wide and her eyes literally glittering. She didn’t look wistful. She was completely present. In this moment. In the company of a small baby and a woman she deemed to be a young mama. She went on and on about how magical they are. Babies. How much fun. How special this time.
And then, still not looking wistful, still glittering, she said, “I miss it.”
I smiled. I know. Everyone does.
“If we had all the time in the world, I’d do it all again right now.” she went on, “But we don’t have all the time in the world.”
And I smiled. “That’s nice to hear.” I said. And it was.
And we talked about writing down their stories. Because they will want to read them later. When the are older and struggling – a bad day, a fight with a friend, any one of a hundred adolescent moments that will cause them to question who they are and what they should do and what is important – they will want to read these stories. To know what they were like before they could remember. What they loved. What they didn’t. Who they were before they knew themselves.
She wished she wrote more of it down. I do too. Not in a regret kind of way. But in a “wouldn’t it be nice” kind of way. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had all the time in the world.
We could do it all. And do it all again.