Yankee Candles

Items and sounds and smells and tastes hold more memories than myself.

For the life of me I can’t remember anything that’s happened. Dinner last night is a blur, I can’t recall if I’ve eaten breakfast, and anything that wasn’t directly traumatizing I’ve completely forgotten.

But I enter the bathroom of a restaurant, and the smell of the soap puts me back in the bathroom of my preschool. I’m on a stool, balancing the water between hot and cold, discovering that the faucets spout different temperatures of water.

I feel the texture of a short cut carpet and I’m six, laying on the floor of my old home, drenched in the hazy sunbeam that pours through large and exposed windows, my face printed with the soft bristles.

I see a silly band and experience war flashbacks.

It makes me wonder how much has been lost from what I’ll never see again.