Sugar clouds

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s