Time-Stopping Days.

I miss holding Caroline’s hand.

Always warm, sometimes sticky.

And little.

So little.

It was a part-time job.

Sometimes I think of Caroline,

And I feel a brick stack of guilt in my lower belly.

I was distracted.

Lists of chores scrolling down my head, like movie credits, tiny white-print scribbles against a backdrop of midnight black.

See, I was afraid I would forget something, and the list was my anchor-

Or so it seemed.

Sometimes, lots of times,

I was on the phone in the car a whole 40 minutes home,

Sometimes longer with traffic.

Caroline would cry every once in a while, like an alarm reminding me I wasn’t paying attention.

I would eventually hang up.

Those moments add to my ever-growing brick stack.

This time last year on our drive I would say,

“Caroline, should we count the purple trees?”

I hope she still counts them in April,

And I hope I am more present in the car next time.

No matter how much I try to wash my car, Caroline’s fingerprints are still there at the edge of the back door on the passenger side.

These were probably from the moments she waited for me to quickly, sometimes frantically, unlock the door and get her car seat settled.

And let me tell you, dealing with the car seat alone will make anyone with a brain hesitant to pursue becoming a parent- It’s impossible.

But let me tell you something else- 

If I’m being honest, I don’t want her fingerprints to be erased. 

Not yet.

Will I be a distracted parent?

You know, if I ever do have kids?

Will I forget to count the purple trees in April and sing even when I don’t want to and get off my damn phone?

My mom was distracted often, you know, with adult stuff.

We are close, and I forgive her.

We have always been close.

But I remember feeling anxious with her sometimes.

Like she was in a hurry.

She was always in a hurry, it seemed.

Perhaps in the same way I could be with Caroline in the car ride home.

But also, I remember this:

The many, many mornings I would practice my singing voice with Mom before she dropped me off at school.

Those were my favorite moments with her.

Me leaning forward toward the edge of my seat, so focused on the sound of my voice and desperate to hear her feedback after each song. 

Was I getting better?

No one was rushed, it seemed, those mornings.

And the best part?

It was just me and Mom because my brothers could drive at that point and they went to another boring building for their school.

One day Mom told me that she shared with the women at her Bible Study that those were her favorite moments with me too. 

When I would sing us all the way to school.

Time stopped on those Alabama roads, 

It just did.

I pray for more time-stopping days, always.