I've forgotten how much I love pop-jazz. And Cake. And Everything But the Girl.
I've forgotten that I have clothes that aren't ratty, black or handed up from my younger siblings.
I love the scent of brand spanking new electronics, new clothes, new art supplies: I especially love the earthy sweet smell of linseed oil. I love the feel of paint, especially when they build up, like plaque, on your work clothes, and under your nails.
I love churches and their history. The way your footfalls echo in their wide halls; the candles; the smells of wax and ardent prayer. The wood-varnish smells of absolution.
I love the sight of the sky-- I hardly look at it these days. I love the feel of grass underneath my feet. I love rainy days: I've forgotten how much I love getting rained on in a new place.
I love strawberries: the sight of them, the idea of them, the taste of them. I love strawberry ice cream.
I love humanity-- stupid, corrupt, mistrustful, greedy, vexing, disappointing humanity. And the women too--in spite of their judgments, their presumptions, their power.
I love the smell of books.
And though the heart yearns for the familiar smells of her perfume and her shampoo, the sound of her laughter, these other things rush to fill this void. And for today they're enough.
My heart swells with something it hasn't truly felt in months-- a sublime gratitude for little graces.