This morning as I turned the key in several locks to enter my Mom's condo and pick up some things to bring to her at the hospital, I was met by the smell and the closeness of my parent's home. It has always had this close, warm air.
When my dad was alive it spoke of the bacon he fried most mornings, as well as something beefy simmering on the stove for dinner. Now that he has passed on and Mom lives alone it is more like moth balls and Chanel #5. And sadly now, sometimes, diapers that have taken too long to get to the outside garbage can. But whatever memories the years conjure up as the door swings open, there is always a whiff of warmth that greets me.
My home has never had that. That physical warmth that fills your throat. I've always been one that, no matter the weather (even in Chicago!) the windows are swung open wide for fresh air. I love that smell. It is an essence that sneaks subtly in through a breeze in the curtains, or with the laundry or in someone's hair when they return from a walk or a day's work. It is crisp and a little bit cold, but alive and fresh and new! It is a pure language that bespeaks its carrier in a whisper so pure you have to really pay attention.
That said, I must say that I focus more at allowing others to feel the warmth in a different way than my parents did. I try to keep alive the warmth of the heart and the soul, so that they may be felt by those who enter my door. I offer healthy food. My beds are cozy and soft with luxurious linens. I've been called a bed snob. I'm kinda proud of that. Warm cozy beds say thank you to a body that's done a good, honest, hard day of living.
So this is my way. Not that its anything better. Just different. And today I noticed this while holding my Mom's key in my hand...