In these intimate relationships with my children, the way I relate to people and to myself has been newly revealed to me. The past returns: the scrape of armbands removed from an arm, the lemon-pine smell of hedgerow leaves and shrubs at adult knee height, the dried-out film of a dead snail, the bright white sap in a dandelion stalk, the warm smell of swimming pools, the scent of my mother’s navy mohair cardigan. Maybe this could be the beginning of a do-over, an edit, a new version. Maybe I can meet myself as a child or teenager and be kinder, less critical, less afraid of painful emotions.
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