Tuesday
Picture 2
107_yroldvirgin’'s Choice: Picture 1
Title:
Some things.
Some things never change. The way they smell or taste. How they feel.
The taste of an orange eaten in pure bright sunshine.
Rain on a summer day - flash storm catching you off guard with wet, slippery feet in flip flops.
The scent of pine needles and fallen leaves lifted by a fall breeze.
It amazes her that the smells never change, even as she ages. As she progresses and becomes more. More than a silly girl in plastic shoes. Or an awkward girl in clothes a size too big to cover transitions she’s not yet ready for. As she goes from being a nothing … into someone’s something. Their everything.
Because oatmeal still warms her tummy. And a fresh soda still tickles her nose. And pine needles still smell the same, no matter how old she gets.
Bundled in sweater and coat and scarf...under a hat and with gloves on her hands, she can smell it. Cold and crisp, the air is the same. The sensation is the same. But her eyes are not because she sees through his now.
Tiny feet pounding pavement beneath discarded leaves. Red cheeks pulled back in the brightest of smiles, bluest eyes alight with the purest of devotion. “Mommy,” he’s breathlessly catching up, those thick sneaker-clad feet threatening to trip with each push forward. “Mommy,” he repeats, higher and louder, as if she can’t hear him. As if her heart would ever, ever let her not hear him.
“What’s up, buddy?” She laughs, watching the warm air escape her lips in a puff of white.
“Wait for me!” He’s chattering, arms open wide to keep balance but maybe something more. Maybe an invitation. Always arms wide. Always learning. Seeing. Experiencing something new. Tiny curls escape from his hat and she bends, opening her arms wide too as he crashes into her, holding tight to her neck and squeezing until she’s sure that her very life has escaped from her lungs. Wrung out by her heart outside of her body on two very unsure feet.
She stands, holding tightly to her most precious thing in the world, cheek to freezing cold cheek as they both survey the world around them. So familiar, and yet always, always, always new. “What do you see?” She whispers.
He laughs, always full of laughter, fingers splayed open as if he could touch everything in the entire world all at once. “Ummm. I see trees!”
“That’s right. And what color are the trees?”
“Yellow,” he giggles, triumphant because he is correct.
She is filled with joy and nods, placing a kiss before allowing his feet to the cold ground. And as he runs ahead, arms open again and laughter spilling behind him to reach her ears, she closes her eyes and breathes in deeply once more. Cold and crisp, full of the scent of fallen leaves, pine needles and a little boy’s love that allows her to remain, for one moment in time, exactly the right amount of perfectly happy.
“Mommy!”
She’s pulled from her moment with smile, knowing that, just as smells are the same … and places are the same … she’ll keep that memory locked inside her heart with the prettiest of bows.
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