they are small still
but not small enough.
i look at the magnet
of the fat-cheeked, bald baby
holding up the picture
of our young niece.

there she sits now,
her cheeks hollow, thin,
running her fingers across
the iPad and reading aloud
to the small sisters
who sit on either side of her.

how can this be?
how can i remember so well
the clearest moment of my life,
when i first became her mother,
their mother,
and it was just a moment ago,
i wish it were just a moment ago.

i want to take my Mason jars
and instead of canning tomatoes
trap beneath the lids
seal tight for a forever season
the years that have slipped
out of the bubbling steam of my kitchen,
out into the yard, the cul-de-sac, the school,
trap them there and stack
my three beauties in their youth,
displayed in sparkling rows
of love along my pantry shelf.