A crisp-linen laden waft of essential oxygen breezes into my double hung and I am swept away on a soothing cloud of memories. With my eyes wide open I am transported to a time twenty years the younger, in the midst of an expansive Kelly green, cashmere carpet of discards from a revered John Deere. The subtle chugging in the oh-so-near distance gives promise of a harmonious tune between the dueling snapping linen and propelled blades into the drifting breeze.
The referee stands tall and broad amongst the puffed white and baby blue backdrop in all of her lilac glory. Her heart-shaped face bursting in the bright warmth of the late morning fire ball, brewing a fairly innocent bouquet of heaven amongst the Earth.
Across the flat, desolate expanse of dissecting asphalt, a dull, metastasized International Harvester drones along a furrowed path, spouting fetid puffs of diesel fumes. Putrid remnants of wasted laughing gas from a once steaming pile ensconced within the barn assault my senses. The decaying grass, the leftovers of their once lush dining experience invigorates the black swamp clay. In a long listed process providing sustenance to many and more importantly, my gnarling stomach.
The fragrantly filled breeze transports yet another obscure miracle to my proboscis that wrenches my heart, nearly bringing forth sorrowful lachrymation. The rancid sulfur drenching a regular that patrons the shingle my Mother has hung, dissolving the securely wrapped tissue encasing their tresses wound about the rod of my Mother’s trade. Unappealing to most, the rank--somewhat distasteful—is alluring to me like no other. It draws me back into a swirling burst of emotions that are rather elapsed in order to facilitate procedures of stifling pain.
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