I just had a bit of summertime in the early spring, a delicious bit of nostalgia, divine deja vu. It was in the way that the fan blew on my skin, in its coolness exhaled on white noise breath. It was in the cloudy shadow of the room I sat in at the back of the house. It was in the way my heart sat in my chest, and it ached a little bit with the memory brought up. Though the memory itself was “long ago and in a land far away”, the feeling is still sweet.
My senses are my memory. My mind is cast back by a touch that raises gooseflesh, the particular way the sun winks at me of a morning, a smell that makes me pause and sigh, a song that makes my chest ache with emotion. Memories tied to senses, captured by sensations, scents, and sounds. I laugh, I cry, I feel like all I want is a nuzzle and inhale, the warmth of someone’s embrace, the texture of tendrils of hair gliding through my fingers. My sense memory is raw and visceral and I know no other way to remember.