I spent almost a week visiting family in Minnesota. While there I was bombarded on every side by memories. It was almost overwhelming. I was on memory overload. Here's what I came up with:Minnesota Memories
What does a memory taste like?
Like Tom Thumb donuts,
and Swedish Rye Bread,
and cousin Wendy's chocolate chip cookies.
What does a memory sound like?
Like my brother's laugh,
and the call of the loon,
and the train whistle on an early summer morning,
What does a memory smell like?
Like cardamom seeds,
and lilac bushes,
and my dad's aftershave.
What does a memory look like?
Like old family photos,
and Bert, the Buffalo,
and a sailboat on the lake.
What does a memory feel like?
Like my dad's whiskers,
and a hug from my sister,
and the warm summer breeze.
and the train whistle on an early summer morning,
What does a memory smell like?
Like cardamom seeds,
and lilac bushes,
and my dad's aftershave.
What does a memory look like?
Like old family photos,
and Bert, the Buffalo,
and a sailboat on the lake.
What does a memory feel like?
Like my dad's whiskers,
and a hug from my sister,
and the warm summer breeze.
How about you? What do your memories taste like? Smell like. Look like. Feel like. And sound like. Share a memory with me. And let me know you remember any of the same things I do.
7 comments:
What a lovely poem!
I remember lilac bushes in the spring outside the back door at my parents' home. I planted a bush here but it is not happy and refuses to bloom.
Liz,
As someone who tries to say evocative things myself, I'm humbled by this. It is really excellent. I know you've used this blog principally as a family journal, interspersed with topical commentary, but I urge you to let your creative sensitivities have a go at it more often. You are approaching "art" here, my friend.
smiles,
rb
I love that you put cardamom seeds. That is a classic memory for me, too.
Talk about flashbacks - wait - Dad uses aftershave?
Thanks for painting such a lovely picture.
I remember the scent of pine trees.
The taste of cinnamon toast.
The sight of real green, not the khaki green we have here.
And the feel of that bone chilling cold.
The sound of the frozen lake cracking in the winter, or the sound of the waves lapping at the shore in summer. The smell of Grandma Patch's rose lotion. I also love Bert, the Buffalo. Did he look older to you like he is greying a little? I'm glad you got to go "home" for a visit.
That is lovely Liz! Well spoken (or written).
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