I am about the most nostalgic a person can be. I think most of my emotions are gooey and glowing, potentially pink, maybe glittery. I love my memories, and I hold every single one vivid and dear. (photographic memory kind of forces the brain to be clogged with details of the past, but I don't mind) Today I was picking petals in preparation for dinner service.  The marigold petals add a little color, a hint of unexpected pepper to the dessert.  Seconds in, and I was transported back to 10068 Willow Court, the house with the willow trees, and the porch swing, and the rafters where the kittens would get stuck.  Where I broke my arm x2, slept under the stars, and imagined what I would do when I grew up, all while picking marigold bouquets with my chipped nail polish nails, on little hands. The smell of those flowers brought an intoxicating flood of childhood wonder into my conscious thought. I permitted the pause in my day, the nostalgic moment, the daydream of my yesterdays, because life it too short not to stop and smell the ....marigolds.