Perfect Moment Number Six Thousand Seven Hundred and Five

My life is full of perfect moments scattered amid the less than perfect ones and the sometimes brutal ones. The perfect moment of finishing my first short story. The perfect moment of my first kiss. The perfect moment of the first time I saw Jen or heard the first cries of my children.

Today was another perfect moment. I was in the Den of Ken, jamming on my mandolin as one does at 7:30AM on a Saturday morning. I was launching into a lively version of “Graceland” when Lizzy poked her head in my office, grinned crazily at me, then disappeared. Moments later she was back with Big Bear, who may be her closest friend next to Rachel. He was a bear that I had given my mother during one of her last hospital stays before she passed…it had come back to us and was in storage so when the girls were born, they each got one of Mom’s stuffed animals. Rachel’s was lost in irrelevance among the multitude of other critters but Lizzy’s Big Bear, ratty and tattered and saggy and stained, has been her go-to comfort pal forever.

So here Lizzy is, still grinning like a crazy girl, holding her favorite bear. And then she puts his big furry paws around her neck and starts swinging him around the hallway, spinning and dancing in perfect time to the music. We make frequent eye contact, both grinning, while I belt out “I see that losing love is like a window in your heart” and “There’s a girl in New York City who calls herself the human trampoline.” Joy is everywhere. And then, when the song is over, she and Big Bear scamper off after she shoots me a knowing look and a bigger grin.

Another perfect moment for me. How perfect would it be if this were one of the first perfect moments she remembers in her own life? Now that would be something.

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