Little Things

When I was a little girl, I can remember a few discussions about "being rich." Not philosophical discussions about how our religion makes our lives rich. I am talking about hypothesizing what we would do if we had lots of money.

My answer, the answer I can remember decades later, is that I would have store-bought hangers in my closet. My mother pressed on, suggesting I could buy more with millions.

I thought for a second, cocked my head, and said, "I would also want some cedar blocks to put in my closet." And I was completely serious.

As a middle schooler, I thought that the little things were what was important. Okay, I had not had a class on finance, economics or common sense. But still, I would purchase hangers if I became rich. Yeah, I am a big spender.

I have traveled to Europe, and although I did see many nice things – castles, churches, artwork – I can remember the taste of an Italian Ice, the feeling of relaxing like a Parisian in a park, the smell of lavender in the linens in a B&B near London.

Even my college days, I remember the little things. I remember the type of ball-point pens I used, the feel of writing in composition books, dancing in dingy bars, the sticky beer making squeaky noise between loud songs.

The smell of rain five minutes before the sky opens up.

The taste of my first meal in my first apartment. The turkey sandwich tasted so sweet because it was my turkey, my whole wheat bread, my tomato and my new apartment.

Today I remember the little things. And when I get home, I will offer up three little words to my husband. After all, it is the little things that count.