My first memory of my son, Josh, is when he peed on the doctor.
My second is when I fell in love with him.
Born c-section, the doctor lifted him up and across
the drape that covered my stomach and touched his
tiny nose to mine, a ritual we would often repeat as he grew--
even when he was 21 and had a mohawk and was leaving
his mom far behind to travel to the far reaches of the far
side of the continental United States. We stood outside
the Farr's Ice Cream store in Ogden and he must have seen the abject
despair on my face and sensed the bottomless
ache in my heart...he bent down and touched his nose to mine.
Now, he's back home.
This morning, he got up an hour before everyone else.
He went to the local grill and spill and bought
breakfast, which he carted home in
to-go tubs. He snuck up the driveway and tried
to get it onto plates before anyone was the wiser.
He got my favorite: veggie omelet with hashbrowns,
lots of salsa, lots of ketchup.
This is my favorite photo of Josh.
He's sitting on his great-grandfather's knee.
I don't remember the sage wisdom my grandfather imparted
but my heart will always know how much my grandfather loved my son.
How much my son loved him.
How much I will always love them both.