Something about the way my shoes sound on the linoleum in the office breakroom reminds me of being in church. The clack clack clack of the heels takes me back to that time when I wasn't such a heathen, when I went to church every Sunday, sometimes even being given the responsibility of carrying a tall candle to light the other candles on the alter, trying not to trip on my way up the aisle over the long white robe, my eyes shooting upward, not toward Heaven, oh no, but never leaving that flickering flame because if it went out I'd have to travel all the way to the back of the church to relight it, every congregant's eyes on me instead of their hymnal, my face flaming.
I don't know where that came from.
I recently bought some new body wash, not realizing until this morning that it was the same scent I'd used on spring break in college, that year we went camping and every day we'd drive to a different beach. After a long day of lying in the sun and passing out from the heat, and then waking up long enough to dip ourselves in the ocean, we'd come back to the campground, which was littered with senior citizens and their motor homes, our tent being one of a handful scattered across the lot. We'd jump in the pool to wash off the salt and sand that still stubbornly clung to our skin and then ease into the hot tub to take the sting out of our sunburn. Later, we'd visit the only bathroom on site to shower away the chlorine and any rogue pieces of sand. And this morning as I closed my eyes and took in that familiar scent I could almost imagine I was back in Florida and that, just as soon as I was dried off and dressed, I'd be walking that long path back to our site, kicking gravel out of my flip flops as I went, to eat, drink, and be merry (but mostly drink and be merry) and maybe even fit in a little sleep before another exhausting day of beach living.
Yeah, I don't know where that came from, either.
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