Fallen leaves. Bird songs cease.
The scent of dampened soil wafts aimlessly into the breeze.
See that? Hear that? Taste that?
Fall is calling you. Gently he's falling.
Do open your heart's memory, please.
If my memory serves me correctly, there are three things that pull on my fall-en heartstrings: vintage woolen blankets, intensely loved flannel shirts, and the acidic scent of black walnuts. It is these three things that take me back to a place in time that not even time itself could thieve. I still clearly remember, though. These are the very things that bring my child-likeness back to the surface. It is this feeling that I hope to plant in to our son's heart.
Flannel-wrapped days were often lived with hands outstretched. I left myself vulnerable to gravity as I galloped around the front yard scooping up the black walnuts that had fallen from a tree that never failed to supply. My hands wore walnut stains as badges to make up for the lack of gratitude my palette provided for my hard work. A chill, the only menace, often beckoned a cup of hot chocolate on the front porch steps. Dirt-encased fingernails gladly accepted the invitation. A wool blanket provided by a parent often topped off the occasion. It was brown plaid and perfect company.
The flannel shirt and woolen-like pillow, above, are somewhat an ode to all of this, as well as gifts for our son. I suppose they may act as training wheels for his memories. I pray that Derek and I surround him with the inspirations needed to create them. Most of all, I hope his heart remains always open to accepting these memories that will be well worth storing, eternally.
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