I Don’t Remember

The other day, Younger and I sat in the cab of the truck, waiting for one baseball game or the other to near starting time. Unable to entertain himself as I was by staring mindlessly into the middle distance, Younger decided to watch a video on his phone.

“Just put the square block in the square hole,” he muttered at the small screen. “I’ve never understood why that is so hard. Put the block in the hole with the same shape.”

I leaned over to view a baby attempting to stuff blocks into a cube with different shaped cutouts. “Our brains take a bit to develop that skill, Younger. You weren’t stuffing square blocks into square holes when you were six months old.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, in the far off tone of reminiscence. “I believe I was. I remember that time vividly.”

“Do you?” I shot him a grin. “You were still breastfeeding.”

He tilted his head. “Ah, yes, I remember that time vaguely.”

That’s what I thought.

And fervently hope.

Because that’s just better for all of us.


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