I finished the day sitting on the floor of my kitchen eating watermelon with my son. My daughter busy with loading and unloading the small dish I keep my keys in. Along the way it's become a catchall for random pieces of jewelry and the odd bit of plastic from a baby toy. She loves organizing the disorder.

Bedtime had come and gone. The clock moving past that point into uncharted territory. And yet to come the rituals of brushing teeth and reading bedtime stories. It's four books right now, read in a specific order. Good Night Gorilla is always last.

But Graham continued to eat slices of watermelon, handing me the rinds. I don't know why it had to be eaten sitting on the floor or why it had to be the kitchen. But I embraced it, an impromptu picnic with a charming companion. 

I wonder sometimes if he'll remember these things, the small things of his childhood, the pieces that become my heart.