the dining room.

Just 14 days ago I wrote of winters past. Only 14 days ago there was chatter of snow days to be called. Wednesday the temperature is predicted to hover around 60… and I’m okay with that, though it appears as though no igloos will be created (I’m sure there’s still room for a blizzard in March.. which I’m also okay with). The warm sun and the longer days leave me, again, ruminating on the past; on the jagged snags on the wood floor of my parents dining room upon which I so gladly would crawl, finding a spot in the warmth where the sun poked through the lace curtains, a rainbow painted across my face by the glass raindrop hanging from the windowsill.

The old house was always teeming with fragrances and scents: chocolate melting deep within the bowels of a ball of cookie dough, freshly picked flowers (and the allergic reaction they brought), clean laundry dried by the open air on the twice-repaired, hand-made clothes line, the fresh smell of the detergent (Mom always picked the best smelling detergent… distinct… identifiable with home). My toy barn and animals strewn about from an imaginary tornado of my mind’s making, farmer John holding his pitchfork all the while, trying to figure out how the hell they were going to pay the bank when all of his animals were laying on their sides simultaneously.

Certain smells take me back to that snag-ridden wooden floor that claimed the lives of so many socks. Jasmine tea reminds me of the herbs that hung from the windows. Dusty shelves take me back to laying on the warm wood of the dining room for the hour that the sun poked through the bay windows, bored, sick of my toys, rubbing my finger through the dust collected, my mother, frantic to tackle the dreaded spring cleaning before family visits in late spring. The warm interior of a car sitting in the open sunlight all day pulls me back to the long drives back from Lincoln when I’d fall asleep to NPR, waking up at the end of the driveway, my face warm from the spot where the sun hit me, excited to finally be back home, excited to run in as fast as I could, avoiding the daunting task of grocery storage to grab my toys and get back to whatever dramatic tale I’d built in my mind on the long ride home.

I used to dread those long rides, and I’d exclaim, “I’m bored” while laying on the wood floor of the dining room, my mother replying, “There are plenty of chores I could have you do if you’re bored.” I used to hate folding that fresh laundry. How I long to be back there, back then, when the hardest part of my day was when the sunlight moved past the window or when I was called on to help fold the laundry, when I would struggle to help carry the laundry basket, full, through the hot, freshly cut grass. I fear I would be hard pressed to take the time to go there during the day and lay on the dining room floor, soaking up that small section of sunlight, ignoring all responsibilities.

Build an Igloo.

Lay on the dining room floor.

Fold some sun dried laundry.

Play with childhood toys.