Yesterday, before the sun had peeked out above the horizon, the aroma of bacon frying wafted into the room where I was still sleeping…in that state between fully asleep and fully awake.  It was faint, like a whisper, but it was distinctly bacon.  I realized that it is difficult to describe the aroma of frying bacon.  It isn’t clinical – it is emotional.  The visions of warm, laughing, pajama-clad family members clustered together in a kitchen – a  warm, cheery kitchen where love is prepared in a pan and closeness is nurtured in a hug – came into my consciousness.  I drew my covers up, remembering family.   The aroma tugged at me; called to me.  Get out of bed, your thoughtful husband is wanting to nurture you – to hug you – to wrap you in a warm, sweet-smelling bacony wrap.  Sleepiness also beckoned to me.   That morning, sleep won the tug-of-war.

After the sun finally took it’s place, I arose and prepared a healthy breakfast with no aroma, in a kitchen that smelled neutral…neither was it welcoming nor repelling…it just was.  No more warm feelings or visions of family.  Although I enjoyed my breakfast, I was very grateful for the fond memories that were conjured up by my husband cooking breakfast bacon.  It was a simple act, but a profound gift.