In an even more surprising turn of events, when we returned to the Y this evening for a Friday night of swimming, Mary was so excited that she jumped in the pool. Literally. (Greg was there to catch her.) Mary hates swimming at the Y so much that I don't even bother wearing a bathing suit anymore. I inevitably end up sitting five feet from the edge of the pool with Mary on my lap nervously sucking her pacifier. But tonight Mary was a different person. She kicked, she splashed, she stood on the edge of pool and jumped. Again and again.
You just never know with Mary.
But that is not the point of this post. The point is this: Have you ever wanted to hold onto a memory, fold it up and put in your pocket to pull out again later, not just to savor or remember--but to actually live again? Have you ever lived a moment, and, you knew, at the time, in the moment, that you would need that moment again in the future? And you wouldn't be able to live that moment again, because by then it would be just a memory?
That is how I felt watching Greg with his daughter tonight. It was perfect. Their smiles and laughter. Their wet noses touching. His reassuring hands guiding her through the water. His arms holding her close. I watched the way he looked into her face. That is a man who loves his daughter.
I am going to miss that moment. I am going to need that moment again. But when I pull it out of my pocket to unfold, to smooth out the creases, it will be a memory. And memories are never perfect.
But at least I will have the memory, as crinkly as it may be.
