Ishu really loves looking at pictures.

Especially when the pictures are of people he knows.

At my parents’ house, we have family portraits up and he likes to point to them, naming the people he recognizes.

Like, every time we walk up or down the stairs, he sees the three portraits on the wall. We had them taken back in 1999. One of my sister, one of me, and one of my mom and dad.

He’ll point to each one.

“Ma,” he says as he points to my sister. Trying to say “Masi.”

“Mama,” he smiles as he points to my picture.

“Nana,” he repeats twice when we walk past my mom and dad’s portrait.

And, sometimes, he’ll stand in front of the Portal TV or the digital picture frame with rotating pictures, and he’ll call out names.

Every single time a really old picture of me pops up – from years and years ago – I hold my breath.

I’m skinnier in these pictures. Noticeably skinnier.

And I have this fear that he’s going to see one of those pictures and not see his mama in them.

It happens every time. I hold my breath. Pray that he sees me.

It’s silly. It shouldn’t matter so much to me. But it does.

But the worry need not happen. Because, every time, no matter the picture, no matter if it’s one where I’m at my lightest weight, he lifts up his hand, points his finger, and says, “Mama.”

My sweet baby.

He doesn’t see the flabbier arms, the more rounded belly. He doesn’t see the layers that have been added to his Mama’s body over time.

All he sees is his mama.

Every time.