At dawn

Each time dawn appears, the mystery is there in its entirety.

-Rene Daumal

A large family of geese was having a party on the river this morning.  I heard their wild shouts and splashing sounds right before the rosy glow illuminating the bedroom burst into sunlight. The bedroom windows were open and the intoxicating, familiar, river smells  outside kept me where I was, inhaling deeply and remembering.

After a warm, stuffy, night at the other end of the cabin, I’d moved to a different spot to finish the night with better air circulation.  It is the room I slept in a lot growing up. Just big enough for two double beds, two blue-eyed sisters, and doting grandparents whispering good nights in the dark as frogs croaked and turtles clucked and loons called out to one another.  It was the best way to sleep. The best.

Scent memory is the most amazing gift we’re given. How can it be that decades can pass and a particular scent places a person right back where they were decades before? And so, this evening after thinking about it all day, I’m wondering if it was not the geese but a scent memory instead. Delivered by an old ghost stopping by for a visit with his graying granddaughter. Checking in, as he sometimes does, in quiet moments when she stops working at the cabin long enough to feel his presence. Nudging her to breathe deeply and be grateful for the sights and sounds and smells outside her window.

At dawn.

 

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