The sepia sunlight of a summer evening. Birds twittering, squirrels scampering. Acres of green grass, broken by a dozen giggly faces. One more whoosh down the slide. One last round on the seesaw before dinner and a bath.
There are no perfect moments. Except for these.
Amma, can I play tag? Hey friend, want to race me to the swing? Wow, a beetle! Oh, look it’s moving! Amma, can she come home with us? A hundred breathless questions, faster than light
There are no perfect moments. Except for these.
Tires squealing, the air awash with goodbyes. Squeaky promises to meet again. Grubby hands and tired yawns. Laughter, tears and every emotion in between.
There are no perfect moments. Except for these.
Will the magic still be there tomorrow? They don’t care. In that cold arc of air, at the top of the swing, there’s only the beauty of the now. Hearts worn on sleeves, pure and beautiful, my children see a bigger truth than I can.
That there are no perfect moments. Except for these.
