I think I prefer the small things over the big ones.
It’s never the grand gestures that I remember well. Not even my engagement, or my little, courtyard wedding, or the first time I was kissed. These things were lovely, and will surely never be forgotten. But I think that the big things often get so blown up and exaggerated. They’re pasted into frames and hung from nails. The stories are told once, twice, again and again, and I have to squint at the photographs to remember exactly how the day changed me, or whether I was happy, or even how long ago it happened.
But there are some moments that I’m absolutely sure of.
The slow ones. The ones that wrap themselves around your bones and stay there forever.
They’re all rather small in comparison, but they are the most beautiful. And I think it’s because they are complete, and you drown in them, though you might not realize it until long after they’ve unfolded.
I can close my eyes, inhale, smell the musty-sweet blankets of my husband’s old room. We were teenagers, and wild in love, and we would lay together in bed and listen to Bon Iver, listen to the rain collecting in the gutter by his window. I would put my head on his chest and breathe him in. We were nervous and young, and it was hard to sleep with so much still undiscovered, unexplored, warm and not-quite-ready between us.
I would like for my life to overflow with these sweet, little moments. I want them to swell up under my skin, tumble from my eyes, tangle in my hair and paint the pages of my notebook. And when I’m old, they’ll ask me about the good days. I’ll tell them of my engagement, and my little, courtyard wedding, and the first time I was kissed, because I know those are common, and I’m asked about them often.
But then I’ll get quiet, and the air will be soft, and they’ll lean in further to hear about nights spent half-sleeping in my husband’s old bedroom, about fireflies and Texas thunderstorms and the time I was homeless in Nashville. They’ll love these stories even more than the others, I think.