I asked my daughter, Lily, “What should I write about today?”
“Write about when I was little,” she replied.
At that moment, it dawned on me that she wasn’t so little anymore. Five years old is pretty big, compared to five months old, or a year, or two or three.
“Well…” Lily tapped the table impatiently. “Aren’tcha gonna write a story about me when I was little?”
Lily and I remembered lots of stories:
How we used to go for a walk to McCarren Park every day when we lived in New York. It took a half an hour each way but I was determined that she would love the outdoors, even if she was a Brooklyn-baby.
Lily remembered a store that we used to visit, Caribou Baby, and the toys they had there. I was amazed that she remembered it.
We talked about the Bronx Zoo and the Brooklyn Children’s Museum, and our friends down the street, Chris & Dawn and their babies, and how we all used to do everything together. Lily remembered the playground and how we always used to bring a ball to share with other kids. We talked about how the grocery store used to be right across the street, and how we went to the neighborhood library every Saturday.
But mostly I just kept thinking how quickly time is flying by, and how Lily’s babyhood seems like a distant memory from a distant land, long ago and far away.