Totally / To"tollie"

May I always be able to call to mind the years I've spent stepping over miniature monster truck arenas.

Also, I want to close my eyes years from now and see his name, the way he splits it into two parts, because he runs out of room on the first line.

I don't ever want to forget finding die cast airplanes in the drawer where the toothpaste is supposed to go.

I hope to always be able to conjure him -- arms crossed, chin toward chest, eyes screwed into slits -- in what must be the universal preschool yoga pose for Mom, you’re crazy.

I want to remember the way, at four, he seems to possess the persistence of, say, a used car salesman.

The way he sometimes resides in that place between irony and sincerity, how that's really just part of his charm.

The way he's fitted with a radar as keen as a rabbiting spaniel, knows just as soon as I've closed the bathroom door or dialed the phone or cut open a bag of chocolate chips, knows just when I need a hug or a "fancy bowl of soup."