I noticed the special bags of candy already appearing in the grocery store as I ambled along, I resisted at the first pass but gave in to another display. Bags of bite-sized chocolates, sweets that curb cravings without the guilt of full bars. Hiding this treasure in my office where mostly no one goes, I thought they were safe, that I could dole them out slowly and gingerly to the child, to my hubby. Instead, my Plum chose that weekend to explore my get-away, he loves the rolling chair and the bowls and baskets of gran’s specials. He found the candy, a pile of wrappers on my desk shouted tiny portions be damned. Aside from the issue of him not cleaning up after himself, I know now that the candy was leading me to a sweeter discovery, equally unhealthy if I over-indulge.

An old flash drive filled with pictures and videos, a remnant of an older laptop wiped of important content, lay forgotten in a clay pot my mother made many years ago. When Arrow died and I sought pictures to no avail, knowing I had them somewhere but my scattered thoughts and shocked soul couldn’t formulate where to look.  Swooshing silvery packages into the trash, my eye finally noticed the equally tiny drive that held the memories I sought for 8 months. Once it was attached to my Mac, thousands of images greeted me, luring me into high school, to days before Plum was born, to Stella and her cats and her new car and Sunday dinners with her friends each week of her early college career. Scanning, clicking, devouring the photos like my Plum surely indulged in the 3 Musketeers and Twix bars, I couldn’t stop. Then I found the videos.

Stella holding Plum, gently moving on the porch swing while Arrow blows bubbles, the delighted giggles of my Plum as he watches his father’s face and the resulting laughter of both my children. It is all there. Off-screen, separate from the joy of the moment but recording it unaware that the day would come when hearing that voice, watching that face would mesmerize me. Stella and Arrow, united in bringing joy to the child they both loved first, fiercely. Here in the sanctuary of my porch while they focused on the baby, I recorded my son engaging with his. I can’t stop watching.

I am seeking a new hiding place for the candy jar, somewhere out of reach of my Plum. I wonder if I need to do the same with this flash drive, I have that sick feeling in my stomach that comes from too much sugar. I watch, I get lost in memories, I reject the knowledge that my Arrow, so big and funny and full of life, will never appear in another video, that he will never elicit giggles from his children again. All motivation, the forward movement, the busyness that has kept me rising each day has disappeared, replaced by the sugar low of watching the scene unfold over and over and over. Layers of my denial litter the table where my laptop rests, a trail of tears as messy as the evidence of Plum’s binge.

Was I supposed to find this treasure trove of memories right now? Can I believe that the Holy Spirit led me to by bags of candy and stash them exactly right there? How much of a reach is it to think God believes I am strong enough right now to revisit those days and not get lost? Seeking affirmation that I can do these hard things, magical thinking that assigns power outside of me, I know that if I don’t hide that jar, Plum too will sneak more and I will stay in that day 7 years ago when joy abounded.

Tomorrow I will move the candy and hide the flash drive, maybe. Knowing they both exists though, Plum will search and I will sneak. That moment when the chocolate coats his tongue, bliss. That moment when I see my smiling son, ecstasy.  Pretending we won’t feel sick afterwards, ignoring the warnings that scream for moderation, he slides into my office, I click the play arrow again. Tomorrow, tomorrow we will regain self-control.