When Bobby is gone for days, sometimes I get a knock at the door. Sometimes at the most perfect, chaotic time of night. Let's see: last night one was playing in the toilet while another was standing on the girls' desk, pulling tacks off the bulletin board. With one arm scooping down to rescue one on the way to scoop up the other, a faint knock downstairs meant someone was thinking of me.
Oh, how I hope they all remember this night. With lights off, tucked in bed, the girls giddy to have Bunic answer the nightly request of, "tell me a story of when you were little!" And when the babies sat perfectly still for a book (something they won't do for me!) and another and yet, another.
I hope they remember the night. All of the little details. The soft lighting, the lullabies playing in the background, the silly versions of Bunic's stories, the jokes, the tickling, the sheer joy in everyone's eyes despite it being bedtime.
How could I forget it? Dean Martin said it best: Memories are Made of This.