Premonition

I had a premonition.

It was early in the fall, 2002.

It was before.

I was standing on the second floor landing of our big old four square house, watching Bob whisper goodnight to Henry. Bob was on his knees, leaning over Henry as he lay in his bed. I could see Henry’s eyes, concentrating on Bob. Henry looked so small in his new bed, he had just turned two.

The primary colors of the helicopters and dump trucks on Henry’s new quilt jumped out against the freshly painted blue walls. The two blonde heads touched each other lightly as they plotted the possibilities of what Henry could dream about that night.

I stood watching the scene, frozen; I was overcome. I felt like I was being spoken to by a secret.

“Remember this moment,” it whispered. “Remember right now.”

I felt it swirling around my rib cage, a long forgotten secret.

“This won’t last,” it warned.

Obeying orders I quickly made a mental picture of the two of them in the bedroom with their heads supporting each other and stored it away in my mind. Being a planner, I figured I should keep the memory safe just in case.

The secret left, as quickly as it came.