For about fifteen years, I’ve brushed my teeth bending over a stepstool placed in front of the bathroom sink.

Yesterday, I asked my youngest child, “Are you tall enough that you’re not using the stool anymore?” He replied, “I don’t use it. We should take it out.”

So we did. And now that the stool has been removed, there’s a strange spaciousness. It’s an odd feeling. An obstruction removed now feels like something is missing. As though my body in space recognizes the sentimentality of the moment.

Small changes can mark time in remarkable ways.