I want to remember that Chip will hold Bean's foot to his head like a telephone, putting her toes on his lips as he talks, an imitation she surely doesn't understand, but thinks is HILARIOUS anyway.
I want to remember Bean's sweaty neck - the way she smells sweet and salty at the same time.
I want to remember the sound of Bean's voice as she's calling to me, her voice rising higher and higher into the range of monkeys and dog whistles. Look! Look at that plane! That plane in the sky!!!!!!!!!!!! Looooooooooooooook! (dog whistle squeak)
I want to remember the way my 36-year-old body feels, even as I struggle with that familiar sense of dissatisfaction with it, I know it's a miracle. A youthful, will-never-be-this-young-again miracle.
I want to remember the stresses we feel right this minute - how encompassing they are, how much room they take in our shared internal family room. I want to remember this feeling of stalling out at a roadblock, knowing that it's not going to last forever, a helpful mechanic is going to wander by (or a taxi or a bicycle or a hot air balloon) - something or someone is going to come, and when it does these worries will be smudgy memories.
I want to remember Chip's stubbly cheek against mine, to feel his breath on my neck as he is whispering something to me.
I want to remember this summer sun on my cheeks and Bean's weight on my legs as she's leaning into me.
I want to remember each moment of today, to hold them so tightly in my hands they leave an impression on my skin. I want to press my nose into the crease of the day, breathe it in so deep that I cannot possibly take in anything else. I want to keep track of every little second and memorize that there were moments of teeth aching bliss and heartache--- that all of it was here. Just as it will be again, wearing different sounds and smells and sights, each one crowding out the ones before, as if they never happened.
I want to remember so I won't forget.