I don't want to forget how tender hearted they are, his little eyes spilling silent tears as Dumbo's mother is locked away.
Or the way his little knees fold over mine, the weight of his cheek against my chest, as we wait together for the fever to break.
I don't want to forget how a blooming tree really is amazing when you're six,
and most days all that is needed is the time and space to notice it, to stomp around tree trunks and run in the sunshine.
And how life is always funnier when your brother is around.
I don't want to forget what a gift my little boys are.
Mary watched her son, and treasured the story of his life in her heart.
Today I do too.