I am drinking in this time with her, storing it away for autumn: sunlight gathered in the green canopies of summer trees. It is too much and not enough.
I want to remember everything, keep each moment still, like resin (a dandelion puff frozen in a crystalline shell). I want night to fall, the hush of hours almost my own. I want morning to come–the brightness of her eyes, a sudden smile, her gaze sharpening as the darting form of her sister, doe-like, skitters through the room.
There is a bald patch on the downy back of her head. Even this I will myself to remember.
It passes slowly, moves too quickly.