I’m obsessed with moments. I capture them. I write about them. I rearrange words in my head looking for just the right combination to describe how they feel and how I want to remember them. But most importantly, I live through them. The good moments and the ones that shatter my heart in little ways and sometimes in ways I’m not sure even Krazy Glue can fix.
It’s being cast away by your teenager as you deliver pizzas to his hungry group of friends. And then it’s the text apologizing. It’s when you’re organizing your jewelry and your not-so-big ten-year-old tells you she’s always dreamed of wearing your earrings. It’s helping a seven-year-old find a tank top with straps at least two fingers wide. Or the toothy grin of the other seven-year-old when he presents his twin with a bunny from the class treasure box. And it’s the moment he tells you he’s sure you don’t love him because he’s in his room for the umpteenth time because he threw a baseball—a real baseball—at his sister even though he only meant for it to hit the arm of the chair she was sitting in. and not her thigh. It’s the teenager telling you Alaska prohibits billboards and the little brother giggling because he’s just figured out that s-h-e-l-l minus the s is a bad word as you drive down the same road for the thirteenth time in one afternoon.
It’s the little moments that make up the big picture. The big picture painting of our days. It’s the pennies that add up to the dollars. The pieces of sand that build the sandcastle. We make a mistake thinking it’s the big moments in our lives that matter the most. The moments covered in glitter and twinkly lights are images etched in our brains. But it’s the tiny ones that become the stitching that binds us together or rips us apart.