I recall, as a child, having no doubt that I could successfully perform a cartwheel. I didn’t analyze the chances or consider all possible scenarios. Nor did I fret about potential injuries. I just ran and did a cartwheel. When I landed, it took a moment for a tiny dizziness to pass; to get my bearings (oh, I said “bear”-ings). Thinking about it, I’m suddenly flooded with other memories about the cartwheel. I was with other people. Other children. We were all doing cartwheels and laughing. It was summer and the air smelled of fresh cut grass, made even more fragrant by the sunshine. I can almost hear all the birds watching from the branches of the maple tree down by the sidewalk, having a whole twittery kind of conversation about the craziness going on in the yard below. My sense of touch is remembering the feel of the blades of grass and the softness of clover, the dampness of the soil beneath, my sun-warmed hair, and the feel of a drop of sweat trickling down my face.

Its a good memory; a sweet memory.