Textures of Home

Home was red-brown, clumpy, smooth earth. There is a taste to the air that blends with the way the walls look on the house fronts. Since I was rarely on foot, the smell-sight memory texture also has a layer of vibration: the car going up and down soft slopes over cobble-stone past street-crossings. Since it was always hot and always almost about to rain even though the sky was clear, there is a sensation to the memory: a soft sting to my flesh inside the car. And that’s just what the smell felt like.

Then there is thick black and smooth. No smell. Wavy, uniform, and perfect. A certain movement to the head it belonged to… a certain snapping of the neck. Downward. Sideways. Very quick. With a smirk to her face. ..ready to start something…her whole body ready to do something…following her head. Maybe a clap of the hands. Striding. Onward. The hall from the living room to the kitchen… completely detached from point a and point b. That’s my grandmother.Her face is everywhere in my face because that’s where I keep her. She is the deepest recesses of home. Her bathroom: mint tooth paste, that brown transparent soap, the white light , cuckoo clock behind me, hair growth oil: grandpa. Shaving: uncle.Grandpa and uncle went in there for hours. She called it their apartment.

That’s my most intimate: a collection of other people. No revolution. A matted glory bundle of matriarchs. What about the men? The men are my currency.

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