Quiet, early mornings spent tip-toeing through the apartment so as to not awake any sleeping roommates- my dear, wonderful roommates who make home a place of laughter and celebration and shared life.
Remember this, I say to myself.
Prayer times on the balcony, the city coming to life before me, heat rising as the sun rises, peace found as the soundtrack of Dallas noise grows louder.
Remember this.
Toes in the pool, friends laughing in the background, the warmth of Texas summer rolling like waves over us all.
Remember this.
My desk at work covered in papers torn from a yellow legal pad, scribbles of notes from past thoughts upon them. Long afternoons of spreadsheets and Excel formulas, abstract thoughts for a concrete cause.
Remember this.
Potluck dinners spent round an ever-changing kitchen table, new scenery to match the shifting foods each Friday night. Long, silly conversations with the women who have walked these past four years with me, who at moments know me better than I know myself.
Remember this.
Bedtime stories with the children who make babysitting a gift. One more story and then another and another. Snuggled amidst blankets and pillows, the words of Lilly and her purple purse, Madeline and her adventures, Dora and her backpack, dancing them into sleep.
Remember this.
Long runs round the park path just a hop, skip and jump from the apartment. The dogs and owners that smile and step aside so I might pass. The rhythm of pavement and sneakers, wind and shimmering trees.
Remember this.
Frozen yogurt consumed as we walk through West Village, the topic of conversation drifting from the serious to the ridiculous and back again. Remembering the moments of the past and speculating on the future.
Remember this.
Visits to the library, eight floors of books to be explored and placed inside my bag. Always leaving knowing I'll never be able to finish all that I've chosen by the due date, but darn if I will not try.
Remember this.
Worship, song, reflection, sharing. Placing small stones around the candle, filled with prayers for courage, the circle of people around me the church in a way that pews, stained glass windows and words like "traditional" or "contemporary" can never encapsulate.
Remember this, I say to myself.
And so I tuck them away, moments, routines, fragments of daily life. Tuck them deep into myself, hopeful that they will bring comfort in the midst of change, that remembering will maintain connection to these present moments that are bound and determined to become the past.
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