We saw our first chipmunk yesterday right on cue...today is the first day of spring.
He was perched atop the wood pile chirping relentless taunts at the cats.
I went right to the pantry, filled a bowl to the brim with fat peanuts in the shell and put them out to welcome him back, or anew.
I told T. Bone and Miss Bit that when I was a little girl, I would sit on our front stoop with my own bowl full of peanuts.
My chippie friends would come and eat right out of my hands if I sat long and still.
Their eyes went big and wide with surprise when I shared how one chippie was brave and bold enough to sneak peanuts straight from my mom's pockets.
It's true...I remember it.
This morning I was looking through boxes of Mom's old pictures.
I'm in search of those capturing a specific subject, but I'm just beyond delighted by the few that have found me.
One of which, wouldn't you know it, is the image of my 4 year old self, a bowl of peanuts and a chippie just as I remember it.
Just as I relayed it only a short day ago.
It's evidence...comforting and concrete...that my memories are real.
Proof that what I remember is what happened.
I dig a little deeper, and emerge with a picture of Mom on the day of her first communion.
She's Miss Bit's age and Miss Bit is her spittin image.
As I focus on this image in black and white taken on a most poignant day in my mother's life, I am awed.
This weathered snapshot is an affirmation of the thriving circle of life.
Seeing my 7 year old mother smiling from the photo and then glancing at my 7 year old daughter giggling at the table just strikes me as beautiful and breathtaking.
The raw reality of birth and death, of growing up and growing old so often fills me with dread, but today I feel only gratitude and glory.
This aged photograph is a reverant reminder that Mom is always with me.
It is evidence that she will be with my girl when she makes her first communion this May.
I only have time to glance at a few more photos before the day's schedule calls.
What I'm struck by and left with is that every print, candid or close up I come across takes me right back in time and place.
These captured images, some torn...others tattered...yet all intact...remind me of a shared and happy history.
They are evidence that loved ones live on in our memories and in that way never really leave us.
In the same way the camera captured the light and burned these images onto the film forever, these frozen moments are invisible tattoos on my being.
I'm imprinted with and shaped by the sum of my experiences and the richness of my relationships.
Sometimes all it takes is a photograph or two to remember and rejoice in this fact.
He was perched atop the wood pile chirping relentless taunts at the cats.
I went right to the pantry, filled a bowl to the brim with fat peanuts in the shell and put them out to welcome him back, or anew.
I told T. Bone and Miss Bit that when I was a little girl, I would sit on our front stoop with my own bowl full of peanuts.
My chippie friends would come and eat right out of my hands if I sat long and still.
Their eyes went big and wide with surprise when I shared how one chippie was brave and bold enough to sneak peanuts straight from my mom's pockets.
It's true...I remember it.
This morning I was looking through boxes of Mom's old pictures.
I'm in search of those capturing a specific subject, but I'm just beyond delighted by the few that have found me.
One of which, wouldn't you know it, is the image of my 4 year old self, a bowl of peanuts and a chippie just as I remember it.
Just as I relayed it only a short day ago.
It's evidence...comforting and concrete...that my memories are real.
Proof that what I remember is what happened.
I dig a little deeper, and emerge with a picture of Mom on the day of her first communion.
She's Miss Bit's age and Miss Bit is her spittin image.
As I focus on this image in black and white taken on a most poignant day in my mother's life, I am awed.
This weathered snapshot is an affirmation of the thriving circle of life.
Seeing my 7 year old mother smiling from the photo and then glancing at my 7 year old daughter giggling at the table just strikes me as beautiful and breathtaking.
The raw reality of birth and death, of growing up and growing old so often fills me with dread, but today I feel only gratitude and glory.
This aged photograph is a reverant reminder that Mom is always with me.
It is evidence that she will be with my girl when she makes her first communion this May.
I only have time to glance at a few more photos before the day's schedule calls.
What I'm struck by and left with is that every print, candid or close up I come across takes me right back in time and place.
These captured images, some torn...others tattered...yet all intact...remind me of a shared and happy history.
They are evidence that loved ones live on in our memories and in that way never really leave us.
In the same way the camera captured the light and burned these images onto the film forever, these frozen moments are invisible tattoos on my being.
I'm imprinted with and shaped by the sum of my experiences and the richness of my relationships.
Sometimes all it takes is a photograph or two to remember and rejoice in this fact.
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