to this.

Do not miss this moment.  It is brief.  A twinkling, a breath.  You will watch it float away on a breeze and spend your tomorrows conjuring yesterday.  Often I find myself remembering hot summer afternoons, swinging on the porch, my head against my Papa's rough flannel, a cold glass of tea sweating in my hands, mint leaves and lemons swirling round, the horses playing chase, children's laughter, so present, so common, so missed.  The good old days, they'll say, as they spin tails of times that were better than today.  And so each memory becomes a rose more perfumed, richer, brighter than the one you hold in your hand.  If you forget that each day you are forming the basis for dreams, the beckoning back to times that were, you'll spend your tomorrows wishing you were anywhere but there.  The present is always passing, it is always something that was.

This last week was full.  It held friends, hikes, sand in the toes, huge plates of food, laughter, children playing, waves crashing against legs that danced in and out of their grasp.  Nights would end around a smoky campfire, flames desperately reaching for the stars, little ones would slowly drift one at a time to sleep as the low murmur of parents voices surrounded them in a cloud of security.  I could say that there are few things better than good food, good friends, and days to play, but I would be missing the moment.  We ended the last day, back home, fevers and coughs, playtime worn down to blankets and tea, movies and rest.  There are few things better than life.  The richness of it, the grasping for it and the enjoyment as it fills us and we recognize that this is the moment.  It is perfect in it's clarity, it's free form carelessly flung in precision.