I have reached an age where childhood is no longer a vivid memory, but I remember feelings, images, and smells. My grandmother’s kitchen was one of the most comfortable places I ever experienced. Love there was expressed not by words but by activity, the smells of something always on the stove, and the licking spoon.
I also remember the pleasure I felt in small things. Even as I grew older, and greater things began to crumble and I learned that so much was beyond my control and I could no longer walk away from words or people that hurt, there were always the little things that brought me joy and when the pain got so great I could always escape.
Now as childhood is only a memory, I become more and more attached to the little things once again. Cars, boats, and planes are mere utilities, and its in the little things where I find joy and escape.