like fire hot
Sweaty already stepping off the last stair into the grass that’s too long and makes my feet itch I walk out into the morning turning my face to the sun still low on the horizon. Its early and I’m fuzzy and sleepy and grumpy having to wake up preferring to sleep and sleep and sleep with my eyes closed, covers pulled up over my head, hair across my face, hand under my cheek.
The sun burns my shoulder, lifts the smell of my shampoo out of my hair into the early morning breeze. My light eyes squint in the brightness and I close them, for just a moment, thinking, then the moments gone.
Like a lot of heavy furniture I keep in the attic, memories are dusty and out of date, useless really but held on to because maybe one day, I can use them-if they aren’t too dusty, disintegrating, becoming moldy and two sizes too small.