The scent of promises past.

 At home I crawl out of bed and, because my chair is right in front of a mirror, look at myself. Tousled, wild, hair going every which way, I look tired, worn out  . . .  old.  The windows are closed and the only sound I hear is the white sound of air conditioners running out back. It can be a recipe for depression if I am not careful.

This morning I slid out of bed and, because I'm visiting Bestest, shuffled into the kitchen where he gave me a hug and a cup of coffee. Then we went out on his screened in porch.

The air was redolent with promises of spring and all kinds of unknown but wonderful things to come. Birds were twittering brightly in some unseen tree and a light breeze evoked feelings from all those springs preceding my thirteenth birthday.

I felt happy and free and young, because that is what young means to me -- unlimited possibilities, the freedom to believe anything can happen, the belief that the world lies at my feet and I have only to reach out and pick it up.

So, what do I do with all the beautiful feelings? 

Not much. Just experiencing them is a heady treat, a time machine journey into my youth that leaves me brimming over with joy and hope and promises past still to come.