Just Love Harder

Yesterday I woke up with this photo on my mind, catching it before it faded away in the light. I could feel the heat of two little boys pressing into me. The heaviness of Owen’s head in the crook of my arm, and the comfortable way Ethan rested against me at the end of the day. My legs itched from the nubby fabric of a long-gone, hand-me-down couch. Milk dried in the corners of the baby’s mouth. Ethan smelled like fresh air and sweat.

I was sure I could reach over and tousle Ethan’s curls. For the rest of the day, I tried to remember all the times I had touched Ethan. I saw him in my arms after a bath, snuggled in a hooded towel. Felt his arms wrap around my legs when I picked him up at preschool. The lift into his car seat, buckling the clip over his puffy winter coat. His elbow bumping mine while we ate dinner. Years of casual, tender brushes against his forehead, his shoulder, his hand. My skin holds the memory of his skin. I hope it always will.

In this picture, we’re halfway through reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, having finished The Magician’s Nephew a few weeks before. Ethan wasn’t quite 5 years old when we started reading The Chronicles of Narnia. I wondered if he’d be able to follow the storyline at his age. But Ethan always had such incredible verbal skills and the ability to think in the abstract. We devoured the entire series and talked about the books throughout the day, imagining the White Witch lurking in the woods behind our house or happening upon Mr. Tumnus’ cave when we walked to the park.

 We looked forward to each upcoming chapter, each new book. The pitch of my voice changing for each character, Ethan’s raspy voice and funny lisp asking questions as we read. Each night we read together. Each night settled around us with the promise of another day ahead.

I sometimes wonder if we’re each allotted a certain number of nights and days. If when we’re born, a timer begins its steady count backwards to zero. How many times will we touch a loved one during those years? How many pages will we read or write? What memories will live beyond those days?

Settle into those memories when they return. Sit in that perfect evening when the air held the faint scent of milk and sweat. There’s an open book in your hands, a thousand pages left to turn. A story so timeless and vivid you will feel it long after it’s told. You may wake with its gentle weight still warm against your skin.