Raindrops glistened on the cemetery lawn. I was visiting the grave of my niece Brooke Michelle . She would have been six months old. Sitting triumphantly on the table as if she owned the world, the little darling managed to bring an endless array of objects to her mouth to taste, to sample, to explore. At the deepest core, childhood is the era of growth.
Growth means ever-fresh newness.
This year my youngest son outgrew his crib. I will never again have the experience of slipping into my child's room at night and gazing into the crib, my heart warmly melting. This year my daughter lost her first tooth. Her little-girl smile will never be the same. This year my oldest son sprouted hair under his arms.