I hear you in the kitchen making coffee and kale smoothies. I am wrapped in a sheet and there are little tan boys all around me. One sits almost on my head. Another speaks like a poet about Star Wars to no one in particular, just talking to the morning. There are a thousand birds outside the window singing hot summer tunes and not one of these boys has a big old worry yet. I am like a percolator of worry, but you don't have any and there is still magic. There is still time for each of you to create the sparkle pop childhood memories that will keep you warm in the future. That will make you miss your mother even before she is gone.