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At 3AM, he told me my sheets smelled like his grandmother's.
What an odd remark to make. I was half awake, trying to sleep. Caught in the in-between, when your body is begging you to close your eyes but your mind is fighting back. Did that comment merit a reply? I grumbled, said it was a strange thing to notice, rolled over. Do my sheets even have a smell? My wash and fold place uses unscented detergent.
Do you have moments where you want to remember something that never existed?
The smell of my grandmother's sheets never registered with me. I can place her laugh, the details of her home, the way she taps the gas pedal stop-and-go while listening to classical music on the AM radio.
I tried to rack my brain for other smells. Wet dogs, sure. I spent my childhood in a house with more four-legged creatures than humans, the smell of a pack of dogs on wet summer afternoon or after a winter snowstorm is permanently in my mind. Fresh coffee in the morning. Or was that the sound of the coffee machine, rather than the smell?
What senses do you use to remember?
I get to thinking about moments that I can't blink away. I often remember things I want to forget with vivid color, but I'm remembering with my eyes, my ears, my hands. My nose rarely remembers.
I can flashback quickly by closing my eyes. Being back in New York, I've walked past corners and paused — remembering moments years ago at the same spot, passing through ghost of myself as I continue moving onwards.
Sounds can be just as jarring when retracing a memory. I can replay a conversation in my mind as if I'm a fly on the wall, a witness listening intently. Seemingly random conversations that find purpose in hindsight, or the snapping point in a heated argument — I can replay and rehash these moments to a fault.
My hands remember burns and squeezes. My body can bruise and remember quick moments for long periods, like when I walk into a table and my hip has a purple tinge for almost a week.
It's been weeks since that remark, and hours since I got out of bed this morning.
My nose still doesn't remember what my sheets smell like.
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