Somehow the air always smells sweet.
A mix of honeysuckle, just the right amount of dew drops, and dirt baked by the sun. Even at night, laying in the grass, breathing in the deep tones of grass and wisteria.
Incense often winding its way out of the Mission, mingling with roses and palms. Walking barefoot through heavy doors, feeling the almost too-smooth bricks underfoot. Sitting in a wooden, rigid-backed chair, looking up.
Eyes adjusting to a sudden cool dim, not threatening but rather comforting in its difference. A welcome silence apart.
Hands running along roughly stuccoed hallway walls, finding an excuse to escape their confines for a late-night respite under vine-covered arches. “Stealing” proffered fruit, hanging in baskets off neighbors’ fences.
Feeling the juice of a fresh-picked orange run down an arm, still sweaty from the late fall sun.
Vaguely aware that the rush of wind is just as likely to source from the jets landing next door as mother nature.
Knowing without realizing that these stolen moments will endure – through the tumult, through the everyday, through the soul-rending life ahead.
Walking the paths, again and again, of two tiny acres etched into feet that all feel like owners of larger past.
Seeking, but not finding, forever rebuilding anew.
This post is a response to “Outside your Blogging Box”. I chose to explore a mix of sensory memory, creative memoir, and a dash of revisionist history.