A memory
We ignore how memory brings not just an event of the past but all the senses that went with it too.
Walking past a greengrocer I saw him line a box with cabbage leaves. Something different about the leaves caught my eye, the dark crisp pungent green of them, the lighter veins, strong and juicy, the green looking almost knitted. I was eight years old and cleaning, probably under protest, my guinea pig’s hutch. I remembered the moist sawdust, the perfume of resinous shavings, a sharp tang of urine, the darker note of the droppings. I remembered the light scratching of his claws as I held him in my hands, the feel of his ribs beneath his silky coat, the brightness of his eyes.
Because I walked on a sunny morning in October, because the greengrocer cared enough to line his displays with cabbage leaves (not plastic bowls), because I was open, I received the gift of this memory. I felt sad that I had not looked after my pet as well as I could, but moved to have his scent in my nostrils after so many years and, at that moment, happy.