There’s home in the smell of the jumper my mum washed last time I visited.
There are Friday nights in the aroma of curry, used to soak up the post-work/pre-dinner pint from the cheap local of our early career days.
There’s a weekend away wrapped up in the waxed paper the flapjacks came in.
There’s first love in the smell of your first aftershave. There’s love that lasted in your newest choice.
The memories of a girls-only holiday tap their toes to that year’s pop classic, something cheesy that promised endless summer.
Saturday afternoons and a misspent youth play out with every card hand I win, taught by a master for pennies from the jar.
Bright pink will always be the colour of travel sickness tablets, the dreaded winding journeys leading to happy miles of walks, pool competitions and picnics from the back of the car.
A necklace around my neck is a much loved absence sitting pretty against my skin.
Unspecific evenings and summers in the sun are forever present as the sun goes down over the city.
There isn’t a single quiz question I can hear that won’t remind me of the good old days.
And so it happens, nostalgia sets in at the sight of an insignificant object or the smell of a fabric softener. Recollections flood back without warning to the lyrics of a long-forgotten song or the touch of a hand.
Memories aren’t something we always have to cling to; often they’ll come back to us when we least expect it.