The wind is whistling outside.This manufactured house shivers and quakes with each blow and even behind closed windows I can smell the scent of spring breaking through the winter chill. There are still patches of snow outside struggling to hold against the warmth of the sun. I can empathize and yet long for the end of winter’s kiss that lingers underneath the surface.
I read somewhere that scent is one of the strongest triggers of memory. On days like this I can remember scrubbing the tiles in front of the double doors that led to the backyard of my Grandmother’s house. I would sing a little tune I made up when I felt like Cinderella.