That one memory...

You know the one.
It makes you stop everything.
Breathing, even.

As I rocked my son this evening, he squirmed and cried and fussed.
Then I heard nothing.
The sounds of my ten month old were gone.
The television was silent.
The A/C could no longer be heard off in the distance.

All of a sudden I was ten years old.
It was very early. Before dawn.
My father and I were arriving at a cut site.

I was about to spend the work day with my dad.
At the time, he cut trees.
I can remember vividly, the smell of fresh wood.
The massive tires of the Skidder.
The constant smell of oil and exhaust.
The red flannel shirts and the bright orange ball caps.
The wool gloves that got wet in the first five minutes, then never dried.

This was a great memory.
I can recall drinking coffee and eating snacks by myself.
Just sitting alone in the woods. Waiting for dad to come back.
He was off cutting a tree.
When it was cut, he would come get the Skidder and we would ride into the woods to chain it up and drag it out.

There you have it.
A memory I've never shared with anyone.
A memory I'd like to hold on to just a little while longer...