So many times writing prompts bring my thoughts to childhood memories. But lately, I seem to be slipping back into a time of suspended youth without prompting, meditating on a life already lived. I look at my children and wonder what memories they will hold on to for the rest of their lives.
I can still smell the sweet grape scents of the Mountain Laurel trees, and the rich perfume of floating magnolia flowers in the center of our kitchen table. I miss things like a house full of people eating my mother’s amazing food, drinking good wine and listening to jazz music. I close my eyes and I am transported back to a house that would take up only a fraction of the house my children live in today, rooms so close you could hear every conversation, feel every emotion. I wonder how long I’m going to consider Texas my home, even though I’ve now lived in Michigan for more than a decade. I am surprised at how comforting it is to remember pots of herbs and blooming Lantana bushes decorating my mother’s garden.
And then I realize, it isn’t the thinly leafed trees, or the hot summer sun that I cling to, it’s my family. I hold tight to so much from Texas because that is where I most picture my mom. And even though my parents have moved to Virginia, that place with the olive-green carpet, dingy linoleum and orange counter-tops, will always be a place that brought me the most comfort in my life.