What do you miss that you can’t name?

I was standing at the edge of a clearcut yesterday, and for a second I thought I smelled something—old pine, maybe, or just memory. But it wasn’t there. Not really. And that’s when it hit me: I don’t even know what I’m missing anymore. The forest isn’t silent, but it’s not speaking in words either. Just breath. Just weight. What’s the thing you carry without knowing its name?