The brown paper bag is clutched in my hand until the top is wrinkled like the skin of an old lady.
Inside the bag, the prized can I carefully selected waits, wrapped in tin foil to keep in the cold. But always it explodes pink frothy warm.
A drawing in ballpoint pen decorates the front of the bag. Today it is of the replica historical village we visit, where we learn about survival before they had yellow school buses and black cherry soda.
I was the only one with such a drawing, as I was each time our class went on a field trip.
Love from Mom. Love. The word I didn't hear. Maybe this was proof?
Special, for once. Me.
Only she does not remember now, this thing, so profound.
I prompt: Were you bored? Did you want me to know you were thinking of me?
She said she didn't know. She'd ponder, get back to me.
So I wonder, will my kids call one quiet afternoon, grown up, and ask, Do you remember?
I want to. I want to.
What will stay with them? Not the manufactured memories of trips to SeaWorld and Princess birthday parties we try so hard to give them.
Small moments.
When they knew they were truly seen.
When they knew they were loved.
Ballpoint pen on a paper bag.
