Happens one, maybe two hundred times a day. Forehead, wink of eye, cheek, chin, fingers. If kisses were graffiti he’d be a piece, bombed, top-to-bottom. And sister would be king.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It may be that she’ll forget he wasn’t always in our lives, sooner than it’ll take for us to make it through the last of the copious Post-Partum Dinner Brigade leftovers. But it’s heart-tugging to see all the