Wandering the backstreets, freewrite

Wandering the unfamiliar backstreets I find the path always goes forward. I find forgotten pieces of myself in the alleyways, on those secret paths etched by children and pets—they go with impunity to places where grownups fear to tread. Like a jewel, memory is triggered by a particular bend in the road, a certain slant of sunlight, kindled by the odor of a season. 

The way the sun struck my face. I analyzed it—hot, humid, like spring, but fuller with a promise of harvest—that rich heat similar to spring, but more laden. Indian Summer coats the skin with humidity. We’re not used to it here on this coast. Florida, maybe. And I am transported back by the dappled light, myriad sun circles spread on the ground like small vanilla wafers.

The old cat wanders by, sniffing each circle as if it were elegible for treasure. He stops, sniffs, with mouth slightly ajar—flehmen. It’s as if he too were transported by memory, having taken the backroad himself. We bask in the late afternoon sun. His dark coat lies flat, full of static electricity, sparks flying under my hand, but the sun outshines the light of his fur during these long drawn out dog days of Summer.

8/27/2004 Writers' Group