The month we
saved the sunshine

Dear future you,

This month, you asked if we could save some sunshine for tomorrow. Just a little, you said. It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to ask.

One morning, you put your shoes beside mine. “Now they’re friends.” We left them like that by the door, your tiny pair tucked up against my much bigger ones.

Grandma kept a moment too. When the moon came out, you called it a night-light. I wonder how long we’ll keep calling it that.

At bedtime, Dad was ready to turn out the light. You weren’t quite finished: the dog needed a goodnight kiss too.

No grand occasion. Just the things you said, and the small ways you made these days yours. We wrote them down because we wanted to keep them.

Little things. So very you.
— The people who love you