the clickety clack call of the week's end

It is early here on this Sunday morning and the youngest has crawled into bed with us. He smells of boy, and in particular of a Saturday spent in the heated Indian Summer Fall, playing sports, relentless movement from morning till early evening. He smells of a slightly sweet sweat with a musty aroma of yesterday's dirt trapped under his nails and peppered across his brow; the smell of memories in an exhausted autumn sun, too tired to bath, too tired to keep eyes open at dinner.

Last weekend he smelled of nothing but roasted marshmallows and the unseen cloud of a campfire.

All of these smells are filled up with memories for this mama, sitting here, sorting through photos and listening to the sound of our youngest breathe a sweet sleepy early morning breath. In my mind I am sorting memories of this moment, memories of this weekend and last; sorting memories of the arch of my life, the pulling back of the bow and the taught string that sends an arrow flying high towards its intended target.

So I write some down. Trying to trap the scents on paper as one would trap a firefly in a glass jar, trying to momentarily hold onto to something that really is intangible, that exists only on the threshold between day and night, in those stolen moments of the sun chasing the moon through the heavens across the sky.

how has your weekend been? xo