One of the things I love about preschoolers is that they have no need for proof that they had fun. As the teacher I have a nagging need to send them home with a picture of dandelions, or rain boots, to show their mothers that we took good care of them. Some days the project took less than five minutes to glue shapes on a sky blue background, or roll a painty marble over an egg shaped paper. But most of the morning we were engaged in building train lines, or playing I Spy while we munched on apple slices, or the feel of wind when we run. Yet those activities, however pleasant, have no tangible evidence. 

Yesterday we got out the trays full of beans. Six children crowded around for a chance to hear the satisfying sound of stirring colorful beans with a spoon, and filling a wooden bowl with them. Half an hour later their interest had not waned, but it was time to clean up. Then they surprised me with their continued willingness to pick up the hundreds of beans that had scuttled across the floor. Four kids scooted under the table, and two ran for the dustpan and brush. No one seemed to care that this was technically a chore. 

Snack was on the late side that day, but it still tasted good. There was no need to hurry.

We grown ups seem to forget that some of our most poignant memories have no proof. Then we become susceptible to amnesia. We can use pictures, and music, and stories to frame the sweet times. But even then some of the tender days are no more visible than the wind.

This morning I asked John for reassurance. We have a wedding in six weeks, and the bride's family has been knocked over with a tragedy. Our son has been called upon to bring strength while they grieve. 

"Tell me we will make it," I asked quietly.

"We will make it."

There was no picture taken, no witnesses to a moment of comfort sought and given. But if I close my eyes I can remember that we are indeed being taken care of.