Balm of Gilead

The syrupy scent of Cottonwood leaves permeates the heavy night air, lacing through the raindrops to waft up my nose.

I allow my eyes to drift closed so I am able to see the elicited memory of my great grandmother stirring Balm of Gilead salve on her rusted wood stove.

Snapshots of cousins giggling and adults conversing jovially fill my mind and wrap me in the warm embrace of familial love.

It is often said that a picture is worth a thousand words, but a scent can unfurl a bundle of memories like the swift blossoming of a wild rose.

I wonder, briefly, if my grandmother knows the treasured gift she blessed us all with by placing family first-and dizzied by this moment, I believe she does.