here, mom, he says, after scampering over cold rocks in an icy wind. he knows there is something important here, something that almost makes no sense yet does. our hands ache because of the cold. i mean, we really ache, we struggle and yet the flowers are enduring and delicate. i put them to my mouth, my nose. do they smell, he asks. oh, i forgot to smell them. i was only touching their softness. no, i say, breathing in deeply now with intention, i don't think so. wait - perhaps? the wind whips us and the flowers. the world is too raw and abrupt this day to release the flower's sweet scent but that doesn't mean it's not there.
later he stuffs a feather into my sleeve and runs off over the rocks toward autumn's rough water. please, tell me he will always always know the value of flowers in an icy cove and feathers stuffed into the sleeve.