It takes is an old children’s book: the scratch of a hard cover, the dark taste of basements, bright yellow and bright green.
Once, before ultrasounds, these were our mother’s favorite colors: mystery green, hope yellow. Colors that smelled like vinyl. Colors that smelled like applesauce.
Is memory worth the cost?
It’s like this: we’ve just left a party in Hollywood. It’s New Year’s Eve. Everyone’s voice sounds like ancient wooden machines. Our feet hurt. We smell like boxed wine. We have glitter in our ear holes.
Traffic spills out and away from the city, a stream of cars with people bent on finding beds for the night. It’s one-way: white lights in front, red lights behind.
This? This is memory. To turn around would be absurd. It’s an upstream battle.
But here we are. Forgetful salmon looking for home. Wanderers facing headlights, looking for a fix.