13 October 2016
memory and the dream of memory-making.
i bathe with rose oil and soften my coffee with whole milk and burn lavender candles and am always, always listening to music, and i think --
someday i am going to be somebody's mother, and these are the sorts of things they are likely to get lost in, hold on to. these are the comforts that, down the line, will transport them back to the cocoon of our time together.
she wasn't my mother, but she was damn near like it, and i remember witch hazel on the bathroom shelf, lavender sachets in her drawer of unmentionables, a cedar closet, tea cups with pinecones and a delicate gold rim, the way her hands moved as she grated a yellow block of cheddar, eucalyptus, watching hummingbirds from the window, her love for that shade of blue particular to summer hydrangeas growing in carolina soil.
i reserve miles & miles of my heart for these tiny, beautiful things.
Labels: the marrow of life