We were in the garage, stuffed with boxes in one corner, and James tossed something to me like a frisbee. I saw a Chinet plate laying upside down on the floor. “What is that?” I asked. “Oh, something you painted on,” he answered. He picked it up and brought it to me. I had painted his name on it and painted a border around it of vines and flowers.
“You should keep that for a memory,” I suggested.
“A memory of what?” he asked.
“Of your mother,” I responded.
“Why would I forget you?”
What can I say? He is practicality and sweetness all wrapped up together.