They won't remember what I remember. I know that. They will remember their own splinters, and those splinters will unfold to color the whole of their childhoods. This is what it was like, they will tell me, and what they say will be unrecognizable to me. This is what it was like, I will counter, and what I tell them will be unrecognizable to them.

It's happening already.

The other day, I overheard Gus saying to Jake, "When I was really little, I used to sleep in the room where Mom's office is now and before bed Daddy would lie on the bed with me and read comics."

It was like a punch in the gut for me. Like someone had stolen my presence from his past. I wanted to say, "When you were really little, I read to you every night and carried you, walking back and forth under the eaves, from window to window, singing, until your body had gone slack and heavy and I knew it was safe to lay you down. Every night. When you were really little I was the one who was there. I was the one who fed you and changed you and carried you. When you were really little, your father hardly acknowledged your presence, except by moving to another bed where he could sleep undisturbed by you, by me." I wanted to holler, "Your Daddy never read you anything when you were little, it was me, me."

Not a pretty picture, Mama clamoring for glory. I'm glad, really, that Gus remembers Watt the way he is now, rather than the way he was then. Much better picture of a Dad. Still it took me by surprise. Left me feeling cheated.

I keep telling myself that what is now is separate from what will be. This time right now: Tucker's soft cheek against mine, Jacob's fear of the dark, Gus's hunger for glory on the basketball court - all these things must be appreciated for what they are now, not what they promise of the future. The future will be different. So often adults look at children and think of what used to be and take away from what used to be because of what has become, or take away from what has become because of what used to be. This is now. Now is complete.