Do: Stick Your Nose Where It Belongs

Most of the time, I take the backway past abandoned rail tracks.  It's the fastest way, no lights.  Today, I stopped.  I clipped Lilacs down there, brought them home, took a picture, and put them in the coffee mug with a chip in the lip.  I am sticking my nose where it belongs, pressing in, devouring a gift. More than any other flower, I think the scent of lilacs surfaces memories for me.  I close my eyes and they take me to:
a window, cranked half open, where the air has a comfortable sweatery snap in it,

a cool kitchen floor, first morning I've left my slippers bedside,

Mom's silver dollar pancakes, so cozy I press them to my cheeks nearly straight off the griddle and over my lips, I suck in their heat,

sheets (printed with tiny rosebuds) blowing, diving, envious of kites, teathered to a swagging clothesline,

the sound of chickens satisfied with the world,

horse hoove thunder across new grass, heads up and shaky neighs,

the smell of cool underground water up through the handpump outside the bunkhouse,

a dog named Beau who spends more time on his back now trying to seize a teasing tail,

the sun, so present, you can almost hear it begging you-right out loud-to sit down, close your eyes and take it all--in.