To Be, To Exist
My house smells of childhood.
Like dirt, and a medicated shampoo that isn’t at all horrible— it’s just there. It clings to my clothes the same as a mild perfume.
It’s a strange town, where the people watch as you drive by. They pause in their routine, and stare.
I once saw a father and son riding backward on their bikes- but perhaps I am wrong. I did blink twice, and a dozen more as I twisted fully in the passenger seat until my spine was angled horribly to watch.
There is familiarity in this strange place, too, aside scent.
I roll my wrists, and one pops and cracks from when it broke two summers ago.
The other is bent at a strange angle from when I type my stories with elbows tucked to my sides,
and I know if I smile it will be lopsided the same as my brothers.
I exist within memories. I am nothing more than memories stacked upon another,
creating a being so filled with time and with so much left to live and yet exhausted.
What a thing, to be human.