David doesn’t get to be home for lunch very often, but today he was. We sat around the table and feasted on food he brought home from the physician’s lounge at the hospital. As he was heading out, I caught a view of the sky on one side of our house. Dark and heavy with water. On the other side were cotton-puff clouds in blue sky. I love rain, and especially thunderstorms, so I took Judah’s hand and walked out to our porch to watch what would happen.
1-year-olds don’t sit still much, and ours is even busier than the average bear, I’m pretty sure. But there we sat, his hand holding my thumb, my arms holding tightly to his disappearing baby body. I couldn’t see his eyes from where I was, just his thick eyelashes drooping under the weight of heavy eyelids, then fluttering back up so he wouldn’t miss anything. We were storm-watchers, he and I, and the gray clouds gave us their rain. I thought loud thunder-claps might break the spell, but it didn’t. We sat and watched as the summer thunderstorm rolled by.
The other day, David and I were discussing what our kids would remember of us if we died right now. We decided that Judah might not hold many specific memories, but he would remember us deep in his being. I hope I don’t die any time soon, and that I get to hold grand babies and great grand babies. But I hope that, either way, Judah will remember this day.