Scotland, In My Mind

Lately, I've been oddly reminiscent of my semester in Scotland. I think about it and picture the gardens and taste the steak bakes. I feel the grass in my feet as I walk through the Necropolis, I can hear the "sorry"s and "hen"s and "paper roll"s. I can feel the weight of the pounds in my pockets. I hear the bag pipe bands as we walk the streets on Saturday.  I hear the laughter of children, taste the apples that bloomed right in front of my kitchen window. I savor the Cornish ice cream tossed in with frozen berries and currants. I see myself watching Sarah try cornbread for the first time and offering us her Jaffa Cakes. I see the pink feathers glued to Caitlin's kitchen counter from our wing making escapade.

Never, do I remember the rain or the wind. Or the days I just wanted to take a taxi back to my room and hide because the wind was blowing slicing rain at me in three different directions, rendering my umbrella utterly useless. Never, do I remember the frustration at not having things done "on time", at having to brush up on my expected knowledge of Celtic History or at having to scrub the kitchen down before I could make dinner.

Instead, I remember the Scotland of my memory. The Scotland that stands for freedom, beauty, good drinks with good friends, adventure, dreams and the right to stare at kilt clad men in all of their sexy glory.

Because these are things we  will remember way past our 80th birthdays. We will tell them to our children, and grandchildren  in stories about the days of our youth, or show them  in the habits and words we picked up. They are the memories that will last past our last sunset.