Whom can I tell?

About riding down 5th avenue with you on the bus, when you were only 3 or so and no little brother, a winter morning and we're going early to your little program you loved so much, and the sun is just breaking over the street and you say, "Mommy, what's that yellow stuff on the street" and I say, "It's the sun honey" and you make a disgusted face and say, "I don't like it."

Or when you were 2 almost 3 and we're walking away from the library toward the park and it's early spring and you point up at the gingkos and say, "Mommy, what's that green stuff all over the tree" and I say, those are baby leaves and you say "I don't like it." And I laugh, but not too loud and tell you that it means the weather will get warmer and you say, "oh, ok."

Whom can I tell these little stories of your childhood that tell me so much about the person you would become. Mothers need their children to grow up just for this reason, but not you. You leave me again. I don't know how I will ever find you in this vast dark universe.