a pocketful of sunshine

There are moments in my days when I struggle.

When I have to reach into my pockets and pull out pieces of sunshine. My memories.

I curl up in these patches of sunshine stretched out in my hand, much like my dogs do on Sunday afternoons when the sun streams through the kitchen window.

Suddenly I may be flying down the interstate singing loudly to a song, my husband, mother, or best friend sitting next to me. 

I roll around the memories in my hand, savoring them like a piece of dark chocolate. Stolen moments of time that I can access whenever I need to.

Now I might be walking down the aisle on a crisp September morning, my friends and family surrounding me as I marry my soul mate.

The memories roll like a wave through my brain until they are coursing through my blood, calming my body, slowing my breathing, lifting my spirit.

I’m suddenly young again, at my Grandmother’s house weeding the garden as she tells me tales of growing up during the Great Depression.

A smile begins to play at the corner of my mouth, a sparkle returns to my eye.

I am now dancing around my kitchen with Skeeter, singing made up songs as we play, and my husband laughs.

It becomes easier to breathe, as I pull out the pieces that make my world wonderful, the pieces of me that shine brightly in the corners of my mind.

My moments. My memories. My sunshine.