The Smell of Nostalgia

24 May

Someone told me today that the smell of freshly cut grass was the smell of nostalgia. This realization spoken aloud was like a kiss for my soul. My breath was taken away by its simplicity and its truth. It was an epiphany, an explanation for why that scent could make my whole body ache with longing for something unknown. In it, carried through the air were visions of my childhood. Bare feet, skinned knees, running. Mosquitoes, twilight, bonfires. Friends, swings, a treehouse, bikes. Dirt, worms, sprinklers and sun.

A storm is coming. The air is electric with a heavy heat, and a strong wind offers no reprieve, only more warmth. The house is dark and I am alone but for the howling. I turn my head to the breeze in an old man’s feeble attempt to feel alive. I inhale, and there it is. If ever green had a scent, this was it. I breathe in the memories, bow my head, and cry.

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