I'm Not Going to Let Them Forget

I poured the milk, sliced up a pear. French toast sizzled on the griddle. "I hope they remember this." he said, reaching for his mug.

"Me too." I replied. "Well, I know I'll never forget. And I'll ask them enough times, 'Remember when we...' that they won't forget either."

I will ask them...

Remember when we set up the tent at twilight?
When we rolled out your new sleeping bags, read bedtime stories by flashlight?
Remember when we saw the full moon rise, watched the fog roll in?

Remember when, in the middle of the night, Dani climbed into my sleeping bag, stole my pillow, cuddled and kicked while I laid awake, stroking her hair, marveling at the moonlight?

Remember, when, in the middle of the night, Daddy woke and wondered where Caed had gone, until he found him burrowed far into his sleeping bag?

Remember when we all woke to chirping and squalking?
When Dani yelled, 'The birds waked me up in da morning!"

When we unzipped the flap and unleashed our whining, wagging-tailed dog on the unsuspecting swallows?

When they are 12 and 10, and we've traveled hundreds of miles from the backyard, I will ask them.

Remember when we first camped out together? Remember the very first time? In our old backyard?

And they will say, "Yes. We remember."
Because I'm not going to let them forget.

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