As I integrate with Sunny 5, the young alter of mine that snuck down the stairs to make herself a jelly sandwich one early Saginaw, Michigan morning, I experience a flood of unfamiliar and distinct sensations.
I feel the mist of dawn lightly upon my arms, legs and face. It’s like a fine, wet powder on my uncovered skin. The air is filled with scents heavy and light. I can readily smell the asphalt road, a mixture of exhaust fumes and grime. Living next to a set of railroad tracks, I’m surprised that in addition to the familiar odor of creasote emanating from the railroad ties, the metal rails themselves give off a unique scent, like a mixture of sweaty tin on top of a thin film of oily diesel.
My face feels light and warm, nose and cheeks especially. I swing my legs playfully, in constant random motion so they feel cooler than the rest of me, even though, technically they are a wee bit closer to that giant yellow orb.
The porch smells like old wood, a bit of mold and peeling, dried paint. The dirt underneath wafts through the flooring and pours in from the sides. It’s chilly and moist from the morning dew.
My strongest smell is of grape jelly, as if I’m wearing it as a mustache, my slice of bread thick with my ill-gotten booty. The bread, perfect, fresh and plain. My right hand feeds my outhitting as my left parades and dances in frivolity. Being five years old, eating a self made jelly sandwich and eating it undisturbed while watching the sun rise from your very own front porch with nobody to bother you can feel a whole lot like heaven.
I feel the mist of dawn lightly upon my arms, legs and face. It’s like a fine, wet powder on my uncovered skin. The air is filled with scents heavy and light. I can readily smell the asphalt road, a mixture of exhaust fumes and grime. Living next to a set of railroad tracks, I’m surprised that in addition to the familiar odor of creasote emanating from the railroad ties, the metal rails themselves give off a unique scent, like a mixture of sweaty tin on top of a thin film of oily diesel.
My face feels light and warm, nose and cheeks especially. I swing my legs playfully, in constant random motion so they feel cooler than the rest of me, even though, technically they are a wee bit closer to that giant yellow orb.
The porch smells like old wood, a bit of mold and peeling, dried paint. The dirt underneath wafts through the flooring and pours in from the sides. It’s chilly and moist from the morning dew.
My strongest smell is of grape jelly, as if I’m wearing it as a mustache, my slice of bread thick with my ill-gotten booty. The bread, perfect, fresh and plain. My right hand feeds my outhitting as my left parades and dances in frivolity. Being five years old, eating a self made jelly sandwich and eating it undisturbed while watching the sun rise from your very own front porch with nobody to bother you can feel a whole lot like heaven.
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