I can’t quite put my finger on it.
It’s very mild this morning. Breezy, overcast, rainy off and on. As I’m leaning on the bedroom window sill, looking out at the back yard and watching the trees blow in the wind, hearing the rain in the yard, there’s a faint scent on the wind. It’s a smell I remember from somewhere. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like it’s just out of my reach.
I think I kind of know what general period of my childhood it’s from, because it seems like it’s associated with a particular street I lived on back when I was about seven or eight.
Each time I almost grasp the memory though, it just slips away again.
It’s a quiet memory. The sound of a passing car out on the two lane road a block behind my house drives the memory away. The rain and the breeze are muffling most of the usual sounds I hear out back. Not even much in the way of chirping birds or squacking squirrels, and this seems to be part of the memory, too.
The sky just lightened up as the overcast thinned out a bit, and the memory is further removed. I can’t smell whatever it was that I smelled before, so I’m feeding my nicotine addiction that had been tugging at the back of my mind. I’d been holding off, knowing that a cigarette would destroy any chance I might have had of catching a good whiff of the scent I was searching for.
My wife called. It’s lost for good now. The mood is lost, the spell is broken. Shakespeare’s gotten bored with the fly he was stalking around the bedroom and needs attention from me now. He’s rather insistent.