A pair of tiny, black tights reside in my top drawer.
I have no idea how they got there. They are about eight inches long — the perfect size for a baby doll. I pick them up by accident at least once a month, thinking they are pair of black socks. I should put them in the girls’ room or get rid of them. A part of me, though, looks forward to the reminder of the time when Simone and Nadia were small enough to wear them.
Simone wore those tights for her first Halloween. She was a strawberry. Nadia wore them two years later for her first Halloween. She, too, was a strawberry.
I used to wonder why mothers gushed so much when they saw an infant. Now I know better. The time mothers have with an infant is so short and goes by so fast. When I have those little black tights in my hand, they remind me of time I cannot regain. So, I put them back in the drawer, until I find them again.