It's funny how memories have a mind of their own. Floating like a butterfly, they can pop into your head at the strangest times, linked by a thin filament initiated and attached to some extraneous thought not related to the memory at all. Then poof, like the fleeting butterfly, the memory is gone.
Some memories are too precious to let go of—they are the ones that deserve the honor of being preserved in story.
Take those memories that come to you like a butterfly, cast your net and catch them, then pay tribute to them in your memory journal . . .
Today, a butterfly came to visit me and brought me a childhood memory of Mother's Day.
It was all excitement the day before for two nine-year-olds when Janey, my BFF, and I prepared bouquets of roses from my family's garden for our mothers.
We hadn't anticipated what would hold our bouquets after harvesting the flowers. But, quick thought and two plain water glasses from the kitchen did the trick!
We "hid" our gifts in our bedrooms, and on Sunday, May 12, 1957, two mothers on Ivy Avenue smiled when they received the most beautiful bouquets ever!