Some Type of Holy

My mother never believed in God. She would always tell me that holiness lay in the mundane, in the most ordinary moments of life; the ones that we don't even register as they pass us by. 

Yet, when we look back, they are the ones we miss the most. Like your laughter swinging in an arc around the playground as you go high, high, higher, before you jump, landing with a soft thud on the sand. Like the whistle the wind makes as it races past your ears, a sound so filled with joy that you can feel your heart grow three sizes bigger. Like the love that is filled in the moment when you bring an umbrella for me because the weather app predicted rain and you knew I would forget to bring one despite hating the rain. Like the satisfaction of going out of your way to step on dried leaves just to hear them crunch.

Did you know there is a word for it? It is called psithurism. It's amazing, isn't it? How you can find a word for pretty much everything, in one language or the other. 

Often, I think about the time we were both sitting on a park bench- me, reading a book, and you, listening to that podcast that you loved, the one about the supernatural murders. You were peeling an orange, and you absent-mindedly handed half of it to me. I was struck by this nonchalant gesture of love. The way you didn't even think twice about offering half of your orange to me. Like it was a given that you would. 

Since then, I have searched in numerous languages, but no word has ever come close to describing how I felt in that moment. But I do know that this is the kind of moment my mother talked about. I do not have a name for it, and I doubt I ever will. But I do know that it is some type of holy.