While turning the soil in the vegetable patch today, I accidentally cut my finger on a shard of broken porcelain. Squatting there at the edge of the plot, watching the bead of blood slowly well up, I suddenly remembered a time when you were little and did the same thing, running to me in tears for a band-aid. Back then, I could only clumsily comfort you. Now... if it were you, you'd probably gently take my finger in your mouth. The cut is shallow, but somewhere in my heart, the wound feels much deeper.