The smell of bacon frying takes me back to my mother’s formica-topped breakfast table just as the scent of a sage-encrusted turkey roasting, ignites an undertone of pine, only I can smell.
The music of my youth digs deep, unearthing the angst and abandon of cloistered nights behind my bedroom door. Green shag carpeting under pre-pubescent bare feet is all that keeps the needle from skipping across black vinyl, as I dance and sing before an adoring audience that exists only in my vividly feminine imagination.
Unless it has a disco beat…
Throbbing bass beats in time to my eighteen-year-old heart, as I stand beside a strobe-lit dance floor, in flustered anticipation of mimicking moves I have only seen on film. Night fever….
A passage from a well-paged book often gently places me back under my flannel blanket, and trains the glow of my reading light on a single, sweet moment in time.
And the sight of a carefully manicured, moonlit shrub can put a leash in my hand, as I walk in a softly southern late-night rain, and remember the joy of feeling.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
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2 comments:
you are awesome!
No...you!
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