Memory Grove

Aleah Montoya

 

 

For the second time in my life, the sun reached out to me.

I walked through a smallish park that touches some corner of my psyche…

 oddly, I felt an illogical déjà vu.

I didn’t know this park before today, it was merely the product of my aimless driving.

 

Suddenly, my earliest memory strikes me hard.

 Sun

drifting

down,

dust

dancing.

I must have been young then, 3 or 4.

I stretched out on the bed like a cat, bathing in the sunlight that exploded through the high, arched window.

 It reflected off of the stark whiteness of the walls and made me squint.

My Grams sat beside me, scratching my back, I must have begged her (I was prone to demand such requests on an hourly basis).

 The heat from the sun exposed the smell of laundry detergent that was hidden

inside the folds of the blue, flowered comforter.

 

That memory convinced my childish mind that the sun smelled of laundry. In fact,

 I am still convinced.

I smell it even now as I walk through this foreign park, listening to my favorite symphony.

Perhaps music smells of laundry too.