When I grew up, there would be random family’s acquaintances telling me, “remember when I babysat you?” or “you’d always run into the walls,” or “you would whine when I didn’t let you do what you wanted.” And when that happened, I would stared at them thinking, “so what?”
So what? When I can’t even remember your name. So what? When I have changed and have walked like a normal human for almost two decades now. So what? When it doesn’t matter to me the silly things I did when I was 20 months old. I wanted to pluck my life from their life. I wanted to authored my life with only the people I like while neglecting others’ existence and importance.
When I left the Jenkins for good, I was certain we would meet again. I know I’d invite them into my home, wherever it is on earth. I know when I can and am willing to, I’ll support their mission. I was secure of the future, of us having a chance to sit down for jokes and good times. But it would be different with Sam.
I would say, “remember when we watched the cat on front porch?” or “you were the sweetest when you hugged me as a good-morning,” or “you’d crack up when I played peekaboo behind the plants.” I’d recall the past memories so vividly when he would stare at me blankly and maybe ask, “so what?”
“Does it even matter?”
And that feels hurt.
Because it takes time for a baby to feel loved by you and with all that time you already love them so much.