My mother is being consumed by Parkinson's. I take on her fragility. I wear it like a dress, each morning, while I wait for the fragrance of expensive coffee and and old pajamas to weave another day into the calendar of this collapsing summer. Fragile. Although she calls me hard. A hard woman.
My mother has lost her sense of smell. My father, too. So now the house gathers the scents of overripe tomatoes and loose corn chips and forgotten newspapers which never seem to find
Why is there always rabid sunshine when my heart in breaking? We are prickled with brightness and left with nowhere to hide. And the afternoon flames through the house bringing the fragrance of the salt marsh and carrots from the garden.
The daydreams are liquid and pale in their corners, and I am folding clothes from so long ago that they still hold their stories of from around the globe. I hear the vacuum and the shuffling of my father whose body curls around the the silver
It's astonishing. I've spent 50 years focused on how things sound and forfeiting the intoxication of how things smell.
Not that I haven't noticed fragrance. No memory is complete without a fragrance. Time has depth and weight, and with that comes texture, color and fragrance.
My childhood smells like the ocean, my mother's Coppertone tanning lotion slathered in every pore of all bodies within range. It smells like rain and bullfrogs and cheap art supplies and