I find, in my attic, a shoebox filled with memories like sugar clouds, caught in cheap trinkets and sealed in coffee colored envelopes.
It smells of Sunday mornings, with rolled up newspapers and maple syrup.
I sift through dried leaves and their cries of protest under the soles of my shoes.
I feel the subtle antiquity of vinyl records, 80’s tunes that are black and white and grey. Pages with yellowing corners and the click of keys on a typewriter.
I taste fresh lemonade in Mason jars and whispered lullabies; leftover cake batter and chocolate sprinkles.
I am in underground bookstores, oversized sofas and artsy movie screenings.
I walk through knee-high grass and fresh puddles; October rains with powder blue skies and rolled-down car windows.
Nights that are purple and out-of-focus, grazed fingers and cold bottles with funny labels.
Brave, uninhibited conversations and half-smoked cigarettes.
I find a dusty windowsill, breaks in the sidewalk, branching silhouettes.
Broken butterfly wings, ripples on a dead lake, rumbling train tracks.
Cotton shirts, daring sequins and braids that are only half french.
Days that are neither hot nor cold, the crackling of a car stereo and the tragic sound of your laughter.