They are everyday moments, no different than the countless other evenings we've had before. On the couch, his head resting on my lap, our eyes focused on someone else's drama unfolding on the screen in front of us. I reach down to stroke his hair, and for no reason, an image emerges -- of me, forty odd years later, alone, on this couch. Of time churning forward, producing an unbearable catastrophe that has to be borne. Me, looking back from the other side of time, reminiscing of these moments.
I lean down to kiss him and take in his smell, knowing these are the moments I will remember when I think of the good days, those happy days. And I know that right here and now, I am living those moments, the culmination of what is precious, of my life at its most sacred. As I sit here, I want to live these moments as intensely as I can, as I would if I were giving a performance, acing a test, or marking an achievement. To not fail myself and ruin the moments, but to give them all that I have and to live up to what the moments require.
If I could, I would store these moments in a bottle, as one does preserve, perfume, a genie. I would open the bottle in moments of need, evoke the power of the moments I saved, and pray to be granted the wish of today.