Remembering

It's quarter past five and it's dark out like only Calgary can be dark. I see tufts of smoke rising from a neighbor's house. Where does that smoke come from? They're not on fire and I'd be surprised if they lit a wood burning fireplace. It's beautiful against the blue sky that varies in color like a melting paint chip.

I love nights like this. M is still napping, H is probably getting ready to leave work. Except for the occasional phone call, it's so quiet that I can hear the hum from the humidifier in M's bedroom. I feel peaceful at this time of day and it makes me want to pray and read my scriptures and connect with God.

My life has been happy lately. M is feeling better. It's so nice to see him more like himself. He grins at me and motors around the house leaving a wake of destruction in his path. Clean cutlery from the dishwasher litter the floor, his toys are spread across the living room, his diaper supplies over the multicolored puzzle piece mat. There's this unusual joy that I feel as I watch him play and explore. I haven't felt it before him. It's so real it's almost tangible, it's so full I feel like it swells me up like a balloon. I want to stare at him and freeze every memory: The way he waves both arms at the mirror, obviously excited with the reflection, exclaiming "eeeee! eeeee!" The way he sucks on a teaspoon like it's a smoke, leaving both hands free to pick up diaper wipes and throw them in the air. I want to record his noises as he babbles to himself while pushing his push toy or walking around and around the upturned toy ottomon. I want to freeze everything because I know I won't remember it. It's impossible. So I take as many photos as I can, record long videos that demand editing and write posts. Maybe I'll remember something after all.