I look at the street, no longer painted with vibrant hues, and a small sadness settles in my heart. I was busy running, doing important things, mind you — trying to get to work on time, to provide for my family — but still, I was doing, doing, doing, not prioritizing making memories. And now my daughter will never have a photo of herself as a toddler in a maroon jacket, surrounded by autumn leaves.

I’M on the way home from work that afternoon, the sadness of a missed opportunity hitting me again as I notice the empty roads, the dejected bare branches, when I realize that I still have a decision to make. Do I want to be a person, a wife, a mother, a colleague, who only gets things done, or do I want to be able to look back at my years and know that I took the time to enjoy the gifts Hashem granted me?

And I make the decision — to slow down just a tad, to enjoy, to appreciate, to take the time to just breathe it all in. Because as much as we know that each moment that passes will never return, how often do we actually internalize it, in the business, in the hustle and bustle of our lives, the yesterday, today, tomorrow, all bleeding into each other, green and amber leaves, and burnt rust and cadmium and burgundy, all vying for our eyes, our minds, our time, our attention?

I mentally review my afternoon plans; grocery run, dump toddler in for a nap — please G-d, let it be a long one, so I can do things — call the butcher; put up something for supper; give a call to a kimpeturin friend; laundry, always laundry; the baby’s closet (gosh, her summer clothes are still out, and I do not need short tees tumbling out of the cupboard every morning).

And then I unstrap my princess from her stroller, let her walk all the way home, let her exult in the newness of walking the streets, exploring the world on her feet, the thrill of stopping for every car and doggy and tree.

She’ll never remember this, it’s true.

But I’ll never forget it, and that counts for something, too.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 863)