Most moments, we miss. We just lose. We don’t know to make them special. Don’t know that they’re an only or a last.

But, every now and then, we get it right. And we stay stuck right down inside them, those moments. Right where we’re supposed to be. Until they’re over. Because we know.

I was thirty-three years old, the last time my grandmother braided my hair. And I knew. In that moment, in that day. I knew everything was what it was. It’s why we danced. It’s why we sang. It’s why we blew kisses at each other and laughed at the rain.

It’s why I sat, still, on the steps, as she counted out the strands. One…two…three. Because I knew. She never would again.

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