We sat on the bedroom floor, untied the red lace ribbon and began tearfully recalling my mother's responses to each of our discoveries. I was 30, married, the father of a 2-year-old girl with another on the way. My sister was 22. But in that moment, we were once again our mother's little kids.
I cannot fathom living in a world where I don't step on cheap, plastic dinosaurs in the dark of night, find soggy crackers in my shoes, discover my toothbrush in the toilet or pull a tiny blue Dodge Charger from my computer bag.