There is a tree outside of my apartment building that reeks of memory. When I walk up to my door I am reminded of my car and of Sunnyvale and of Tilia and of Gary and Emily and Heleno.
The memories don’t smack me between the eyebrows like a brick anymore, but it’s more like someone on a restraining order standing right at the distance that they can and hollering out, “Hey! Over here! Remember me?”
Yes, sweetheart, I do. And I’m still knee-deep in the same mistakes. Always will be. Damn my mother’s kindness and its ability to be inherited.
It doesn’t hurt.
It’s just annoying now. But I do love the smell of that tree for the four seconds before the memories shout from their restraints.
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