Memory

Walking down a wet sidewalk on a rainy day reminds me of Paris. I don’t even like Paris, but the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in the air with the smell of wet concrete. It has a smell, I promise.
The human mind is capable of associating smells, words, sounds, actions, sights and feelings with memories so well that it haunts and entertains us. A wet sidewalk on a rainy day. My mother couldn’t listen to radio for years because her mother used to only turn on the radio when she was angry at the family. Thirty years later, my mother would make my brother and I lunches as public radio played and the coffee brewed.
The sound of sneakers on a waxed floor reminds me of high school, small chairs in the preschool makes me feel like I, too, am four years old again. My grandmother’s macaroni casserole with the chunks of ham and tomato that burns the roof of my mouth with all the extra cheese. Before my mom got sick, it used to be the staple of our diet for nights when she didn’t have time to cook us a real dinner.
It’s not like everything that I can remember makes me happy. Playing Super Mario Brothers reminds me of the first time I got my heart broken in my adult life, or something like it. The clicking of the buttons makes me feel angry. I hate the way hugging someone taller than me makes me remember the times I’ve cried so hard my body shook and friends would hold me tight while my tears stained their shirts.
I can’t remember what pages I need to read for the next class or the conjugation of German verbs. But I can remember all the words to Baby Beluga from Raffi and Raindrops on Roses from The Sound of Music. When I have to write in French, my fingers remember what a French keyboard feels like, even if my eyes can’t. Your brain is a pretty awesome thing, you know.