I remember when I was single, I ached to share my experiences with someone. Whenever I traveled, I tried to bring family or friends. If I went alone, I often sought to make a new friend along the way.
At the time, I thought I was just extroverted. But in retrospect, I see that I wasn’t only seeking the time with others. But the memories.
I wanted to create shared memories. Moments we could look back on and smile over the beautiful sights we saw or laugh over the ridiculous risks we took. Moments we could relive again and again together.
Moments like my childhood. Where years later we can tell stories and paint pictures together of the events and the participants. Recalling who came up with the idea to mix up all the puzzles. And just how long it took to sort them out again.
As I reminisce, I also realize. My foster son is creating so many of his sacred childhood memories with me. With someone who undoubtedly won’t be there in two months or two years or two decades to look back and laugh with him.
The little inside jokes we share. Or the silly songs we sing. The trips we take. Or even the daily routines we practice.
I hope for him gets to go home someday. And yet, even then, there will be loss.
The loss of all the memories he might have created with his biological parents. But couldn’t.
And the loss of all the memories we created together. But can’t share.