The ordinary moments we rarely notice until they become memory

It’s strange the way we carry things. Memories of days gone by.

I don’t think we realized the ordinary things we experienced would matter to us later.

A familiar chair someone always sat in.
Smells from the kitchen.
The small flowers in a vase that always sat in the center of the dinner table.

Quiet things.
Simple things.

Sometimes, I think we misunderstand what love looks like when we are young. It seems as if grand gestures and dramatic moments are the things we long for.

Now that I’m older, I understand that love was speaking a language too quiet for me to recognize then.

Love was the sound of dishes moving in the kitchen before sunrise. It looked like the gas stove being lit every morning, so the house was warm before my little feet touched the floor.

It showed up in packed lunches for school.
Hands that checked the locks once and then twice before bed.
A familiar laugh drifting through the air from another room.
Homemade ice cream made with a crank and rock salt.
Fresh laundered sheets blowing outside in the wind.

When I’m quiet, I can still feel the love of home.

And those quiet, ordinary moments return to me like an old friend.

—J. Lashelle

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