My son turned 18 this weekend. I’m not sure how he did that, exactly. Pretty sure He should only be like 9 or 10. But there he stands, taller than me. Full of possibility and promise and imagination. My little boy in a man’s body. So much like his father at that age, so different too. My 18 year-old self would have stopped breathing if she had seen everything that would transpire between then and now. So I don’t want to imagine where he will be standing when his first born turns 18. Better to stay here, in this moment. Where heartache hasn’t happened, and loss has yet to come. Where love is still unbroken and dreams are still a song.