Sensory

We've been busy with life this week. And it's been good. And today has, thus far, been good.

But today is the day we change winter for summer.

And one by one we sort through all the things that are just a thing, but each one with memories, days, conversations, photographs attached.

Some are handed over to a new owner, some are given away, some are gone forever, and a precious few are so dear they are kept in the one special tub reserved for those things that my mother heart just can't bear to lose.

I don't keep them for my children to use in the future, or for any useful purpose, other than as a gift to me, in around 25 years, when everyone is gone, and I feel like taking a trip back through their childhoods.

Some things I don't mind passing on. Some things are sweet, but I know I can't keep them. Some things, just a handful of things, upon touching, my heart is cut in half and I'm hit with a sensory overload of vivid memories, frozen moments, warm emotions, and a presence of a piece of their youth so real I swear I can smell their tiny baby heads, their skin just after a bath, or their hair after a sweaty and awesome day at the park.

Each one is a piece of something I can't get back, and the nearest I'll get is a memory, and, if I'm lucky, an archived photograph.

And it's those few things I keep.