You Decide to Notice

Some days, I survive only because I am caffeinated. Where the sea used to be my savior, I am now routinely rescued by the coffee bean.

And when my feet race over hot concrete on my downtown walk home, I can still feel the sunned boardwalks like a phantom pain and I'm confused for a moment- not quite sure of where I am and less sure of where I should be.

These moments, more than a year and a half after I left those boardwalks for the true last time, still happen. They still catch me off-guard. There are days when I search my floor for a bigger gap to sweep the sand into. There is no gap. There is also no sand. When I run through one of the city parks, I still dodge shadows or leaves that look like lizards, and most nights I wish to the stars for the sound of my tree frogs. I imagine these things will go away eventually. They'll fade and turn vintage. But I suppose that I'm not in any big hurry for that to happen.

On that note, in a different color, I will say this: Walking home yesterday, the air smelled like flowers. Now, I am accustomed to knowing the personality of the world surrounding me. I am used to knowing the plants, the creatures, the wind. I am used to jasmine. Aloe. Agave and frangipani. But city air doesn't smell like jasmine. No, no. City air smells very much like a city. Fried food and street steam and diesel exhaust piping out of delivery trucks. If a city smells like flowers, it is the result of a million perfumed women, struggling to walk more quickly than men in their pant suits and high heeled shoes. Right?

Maybe not.

Denver, Colorado, for the month of June and maybe July and we'll just see about August but I'll let you know, smells like flowers. Not perfume. As luck would have it, though I miss my plumeria, Capitol Hill wind carries the sweet scent of yellow honeysuckles. Honeysuckles! Past row houses and over cracked concrete, they spill from backyard fences onto rose and lavender gardens. They don't discriminate day from night like those snotty jasmine blooms. They are as fragrant in the middle of a cloudless Tuesday as they are in the cool dark. I love them. And I needed that.




I thought St. John gave me flowers, but what it actually gave me was the heart to notice them.

In related news, there are night frogs in Cheesman Park.