That's not good enough.
One day I want to remember how it feels. I want to remember more than the simple joy, I want to feel the slight weight of his arm as I remember it wrapping around my neck.
His hand does not stop and rest on my back or my shoulder.
That is not Max.
His arm continues until his hand is resting far beyond most - and then it stops and finds the side of my neck, he holds tightly and I feel the warmth of his fingers on bare skin.
There is weight and skin touching skin and the gentleness of tiny fingers fluttering against me as they move with his words or thoughts.
It is noticeable.
It is unique.
It is pure happiness.
And it will end soon.
For in life there is no other way.
And when it does I will never feel it again.
Even if I ask he will not be able to do it. Because he does not know. He does not know how.
He just does, and then it's gone.
Just like the smell of sweet baby skin and the softness of Delia's breath as I rocked her, my first child, as I then barely comprehended this gift.
Or the feel of Shelby's nose on my face as she squenched it when she gave me eskimo kisses, almost always missing my nose.
Or the velvetness of Izzy's tiny hands on my cheeks when she told me a story - don't look away, mommy.
It is here and it is gone. It can't be bottled or tied with a ribbon and gently tucked away.
Or can it?
It is. It is tucked gently away inside my heart. Like a child would tuck a favorite stuffed animal against him as he sleeps.
It is bottled up to escape and sweeten the air when I remember.
It is good.
But feel it? I will again. As the ground on my face when I fall at my Savior's feet and the ripple of skin beneath my fingers when I touch the scars in His hands.
I will thank Him then for the gift that is His goodness to me in the life of my babies.
I will thank Him - face to face, touch to touch.