When I Catch a Whiff of Sassafras
Childhood memories on a humid evening breeze.
It is not yet dusk. My newborn is snuggled tight against my chest, teetering on the edge of drowsiness in a stretchy infant carrier. The thick, still humidity of a July evening is heavy on my lungs, wrapping around me like the bands of fabric tying my son against my heart. I’m putting one foot in front of the other up the cracked sidewalk of an uneven hill, pacing our neighborhood to put my baby to sleep. The sun hasn’t set and the heat from the day has settled in the streets.
My brain is a tangle of practicalities: toddler’s nap schedule, newborn’s feeding schedule, bedtimes for both and who is out of diapers. Did I defrost chicken for dinner tomorrow? I need to do that when I get back. Which books are due at the library? Did I put the movie that I wanted on hold? I still haven’t finished the show I was trying to watch while nursing. Is it worth picking up again? Do I need to try harder to make my toddler pick up his toys or is he not old enough yet? He’ll be three so soon. Should we have a party for him? Wait, did I RSVP to that graduation party we were invited to? I should buy a present at least. Maybe there was a registry. I’ll just check—
— no. No phone on this walk. I’m present in this moment, enjoying this brief time outdoors, my eyes taking in…
