Every now and then, very rarely, I miss home. I'm not talking about my family and old friends, who I miss all the time, or my rusty smudge of a hometown (which I never miss), but the little pockets of sensory experience that let me know that I'm safe, that I'm home.
The cold air wafting in from the garage when my father went out to gather logs for a fire.
The brackish taste of well water ice cubes melting in a glass of coke at my grandmother's lakefront cottage.
The smell of the black vinyl seats in Dad's '78 Datsun 280Z.
Vernor's ginger ale.
Vegetable thins topped with Spartan brand mild cheddar cheese, served on a white paper plate.
The cluttered mess of my mother's makeup drawer, smelling of talc and pencil shavings.
Snow.
Monday, May 05, 2008
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