If you could pick one moment that could be bottled like a scent.
I’m greedy. I want them all.
The moment–all the moments–smooshing my nose deep into damp-dried tousled toddler tow-heads–one. two. three. four–at the end of a long day.
The crisp crunch crunch crunch of fall oranges, reds, and yellows underfoot. They somehow sound not unlike the crunch of denim sliding deeper into a leather saddle with every stride of a good horse.
The feel of the sun on my face on a drive as the earth thaws from the bleak midwinter, springing into early summer.
Knowing. Deep belonging knowing of truth penetrating resonating, simply stating, “I am not new. You knew me from before.”
Petrichor. Heavy grey, blue, green, skies dark from a good storm. Mountain mists. Rain on my face on my nose and eyelashes.
The moment a long-forgotten Oregon mint field symbolizing home and my whole family before we lost my dad comes back to mind and heart fresh like yesterday when I catch the brief earthy aroma while driving through farmland in Idaho.
Arrivals. The first moments each child–one. two. three. four–and grandchild–one. two–was set into my open arms and heart as if we’d been waiting for eternity to reconnect. And that way your already-full heart has room enough for all.
[Day 197 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]