Isn't it funny how a powerful memory can be triggered by something tiny? A sound, a smell, a jingle, an old photo...?
Every time I hear a mourning dove, suddenly I'm at G'ma and G'pa Carley's house. I can smell the water of the lake and hear the cuckoo clock, and I can see the canal out front. All from a soft coo of a bird.
Or, fire up a grill and throw some chicken on there, or give me sun-warm raspberries, and suddenly I'm out back with Grandpa Hutchinson and he's making chicken for us while I roll down the hill and raid the berry patch.
One of those moments happened to me at church Sunday morning. I was walking down the hall and glanced into the youth pastor's office. I saw this:
Suddenly I was a little girl again, and I wanted my daddy. This green suitcase, a bit beat up, made me miss him so bad!
We used to have those suitcases - a whole set of them. I remember that I loved how hard they were; they seemed practically indestructible. They had a silky lining, with little elastic pockets around the edges. And they smelled funny. They always smelled funny.
I haven't seen one of those suitcases in 20 years, probably.
I think I'll go call my Dad.