Nostalgia

It’s a trace of perfume. Not even a whiff. No- a trace. That’s all it takes.

You remember the highs of laughter, the lows of groans, like an impromptu played by a well known composer.

You try to remember the piece. You try to make its essence whole. You look at the woman walking past you who you do not know, and try to superimpose your memories of the perfume onto her.

But of course, that doesn’t work. The perfume wasn’t meant for you; and you weren’t meant for her.

You walk on. The weather is much milder than you expected. You brought an umbrella, but you now realize that you didn’t need to- you’re just another silly human being carrying an umbrella with not a cloud in sight.

You never used to carry umbrellas. You never used to mind the rain. But now you seem to carry umbrellas and mind everything.

And that’s when you see it. A bird landing perfectly on a branch.

The branch shouldn’t be able to support the bird’s weight; in fact, it doesn’t, if you don’t trust your yes. But the rules of gravity have no bearing on the world you know to be true. The bird rests wonderfully on the tree- a perfect example of nature propping each being to some sort of higher purpose.

You light a cigarette and try to get the perfume out of your memory, but it’s no use