I wonder how many small things I take for granted in an ordinary day.
The way my husband reaches over to tousle my curly hair just before he falls asleep.
The scent of our home after a long day away – like sweet lavender, old wood and autumn leaves.
The sound of the electric Westclox Big Ben as it hums and ticks the minutes and hours of the day, sitting on my studio shelf.
When my husband gets ready for the day, he lays out his “uniform” of blue jeans and flannel shirt. The contents of his pockets vary little from one day to the next. Wallet, keys, spare change, lip balm, pocketknife, work name badge, and often a small talisman of some sort. A bouncy ball like the kind children get from a vending machine and a pearly white gemstone on this day. Little things seen and found only by someone who notices such things.
I like this view of him – more little boy than grown man. Even though he was thirty, thirty years ago, he is still young at heart, so easily happy and content with simple pleasures and tiny treasures.
Surely, I’m a lucky gal.