Ampersand was replaced by Cloyyyyying. Cloying was replaced by Agelast.. which made me sad to think about, and therefore found itself lodged until I forced another word into it's place. I like the word Acquiesce... it's a beautiful sound for what it means.
Then one day, I opened a family sized bag of skittles to pour into a dish at work.. and the word Amygdala popped into my brain. I immediately knew why he found himself floating in my middle mind, rolling himself around.. looking for attention.
Amygdala.. his job is to connect emotional responses with external stimuli. Connect a song with the ex boyfriend who played it while I made him dinner. Now I feel wistful when Skinny Love pops up on my playlist.. or when I make rosemary chicken. The taste of the cinnamon gum he chewed just in case I wanted to kiss him too..
Listening to Glycerine as we sat in the car, watching rain fall on the moon roof, knowing we were both just waiting for the song to end... and for us to end.
Connect the sound of ice clinking as it melts in a glass to a warm summer night, fireflies, and lemonade. The taste of canned pineapple to the day I visited Schmom in the hospital after she had my little sister.. I climbed in her bed and she shared her tray of what could almost be confused for food with me as we gazed at the tiny bundle at her side.
Listening to Glycerine as we sat in the car, watching rain fall on the moon roof, knowing we were both just waiting for the song to end... and for us to end.
Connect the sound of ice clinking as it melts in a glass to a warm summer night, fireflies, and lemonade. The taste of canned pineapple to the day I visited Schmom in the hospital after she had my little sister.. I climbed in her bed and she shared her tray of what could almost be confused for food with me as we gazed at the tiny bundle at her side.
Connect the smell of a family sized bag of skittles with the memory of the green candy dish I bought at my Aunt's garage sale.
It was ages old, and I was just happy to have a little piece of family history... and for only $1.25! Self medicating with the brightly colored confection as I spent my teenage years and early 20s suffering from insomnia.. Blindly prizing the sugary remedy from the dish at 4am while watching Undergrads and Home Movies. Years after the green bowl was lost (in a move... borrowed.. broken.. who knows) skittles still smell like 4am. Quiet hours to myself. Pre-facebook. Pre-Myspace. Delicious sweetness.
When the caveman leaves the lid off his supply of vinegar, which he does almost daily... my dear amygdala doesn't connect it with the thousands of times I've smelled it on his skin post-shower.. it brings me instead to those precious few memories of standing around the kitchen with my 8 siblings, tiny capsules of color dropped into a coffee cup filled with water and white vinegar.. box of Paas ripped open and tiny wire spoon already bent beyond usefulness. It's ok.. we'd use our fingers anyway. And Dad would bring in a white crayon to magically write an invisible message to us on the dollar egg.
Burnt toast will always be a morning spent with Schmom.. The coffee cup always felt so heavy in my 3 year old hand, almost too heavy for me to pull it to my mouth.. but I managed. Listening intently to my mother's side of the conversation she was having on her daily call to my grandma as I crunched on my burned toast and bacon sandwich.. melted butter collecting crumbs at my lips.. bacon tearing at the roof of my little mouth. I'd stare down at my baby brother strapped in his seat, hoping he admired me for being old and mature enough to take part in such an adult ritual as sitting at the table with our mother over coffee..
My attempts at purchasing clothes to fit my brand new awkwardly shaped body could be the beginning of their own memory, but alas. Each over-sized smock and loose waisted blouse smells like my first day of Kindergarden. A dark blue dress with giant roses splashed everywhere.. I would try to wear it every day for my first 2 years of school.. long after my skinny legs were too long for it to be an acceptable length. I simply began wearing pants underneath. It was among the first pieces of clothing that was MINE. My 6 sisters had never.. and WOULD never wear it. The taffeta layer beneath the skirt would leave scratches on nobody's legs but mine, as I refused to pass it down to my younger sister. One day, Erin finally got sick of looking at the threadbare piece of fabric I clung to so desperately and did away with it while I was at school. It was a mercy killing, really...
Amygdala.
I write it out with flowering letters. I make it tall and thin. I shade it, to give it depth and dimension..
Amygdala.
The memories of who I was. The scents that remind me that I am still that girl.
The Cool Water that will always smell like my first kiss.. awkward and clumsy. The stubble on his face making me want to pull away, but being too shy to let him see my burning cheeks. Not knowing if I simply didn't like being kissed, or if I was just doing it wrong. Turns out, I like being kissed. Just not by guys who smell like cool water...
A bottle of J'adore will always smell like my first date with the caveman. I wanted him to think of me as a woman, not the girl in a uniform and ponytail at the gym where we met. So I bought it. Citrusy. Delicate. Beautiful..
Perfect for a night of miniature golf and pancakes at Denny's..
Or the stick of Obsession Erin gave me to wear to school on Valentines day my 6th grade year. I was going to tell a boy I liked that it was about time he stopped acting like he wasn't in love with me. I chickened out. The Obsession broke in my backpack and spilled all over my candy hearts, which I didn't realize until I'd popped 3 in my mouth. Be Mine, Call Me, and You're Sweet will always taste like mystery.. and a chemical burn on my tongue.
Amygdala.
Every day, my brain is exposed to these stimuli. How busy you are, drawing me lines and making these connections for me!
How much more will I love you when I'm old.. too tired to make new memories? When I lie in my bed and slide my fingers over pictures of my sweet Baby Boy.. these ultrasound pictures I already treasure so much. Pictures of his first day of school, smelling like new clothes and crayons. Pictures in his football uniform, smelling of sweat and promises. Pictures of him leaving for college, smelling like goodbye.
Amygdala.
Such a beautiful word....
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