On a summer evening walk, just the two of us, he holds up his treasure and says,
“You keep it Nana. You keep it so you’ll always remember our walk.”
Truth is, when I remember his mama and her sisters at his age, the memories are all fuzzy, blurry, like an out of focus camera.
The extraordinary moments in an otherwise ordinary life, buried deep in the memory bank under the piles of moments, days, weeks, months, years.
But once in a while, I dream about them, and out of the subconscious it all comes back, crystal clear.
I am back in the past, with my three little girls.
I see their faces as clearly as if I was looking at them, two with brown eyes, one with blue.
I hear their little girl voices, even the little lisp that middle daughter used to have.
The subconscious has recorded it and filed it away in perfection.
I take the feather from his hand and say,
“I will not forget.