It gets harder every year. Yom HaShoah. Yom HaZicaron. Every year the ticking accelerates. Every year I realize all over again how important it is to not take any of it for granted. Every hug, every cuddle. Every whispered secret. Every question. Every silent moment, holding hands. Feeling up-down-up-down of a tiny chest against my own, swaying together on a porch hammock for one. Not so tiny now. Not so tiny. But not so big as the space between us, at some time soon, when the acceleration of the ticking will be so quick, and yet I’m swaying with a little less momentum, and I look down, and you’re somewhere else, swaying on your own.