Member-only story
The Purple Knob
It is funny the little things that you remember from the past. How wonderous is the human brain to retain those tiny, lovely things that float in the corners of your mind. Like short strokes of watercolor on the canvas of your brain. Light, faded little pieces of warm fuzzy nuggets of your past. The small memories that make you smile. The seconds of happiness that last forever.
They are more than memories; they are glimpses of past feelings that linger like smells. Fleeting moment ghosts that flutter past like butterflies.
One of my favorite memory ghosts is of myself at eight years old. I am lying on my stomach on gold carpet, under a window. The sun is shining through, warm on my back and the sun lights up the gold carpet around me. I have a book on the floor in front of me. As I am reading, dust motes are floating around me like tiny fairies in the sunbeam. The carpet is warm, soft, and golden like a wheat field in the summer sun. That is one of my swirling watercolor memories that stays with me in the corner of my mind. I hope that memory ghost stays with me to the very end. I hope that on my deathbed, God willing, I can revel in it as I pass.
They tell me that this next memory ghost can’t be. You were too young to remember, they say. But somehow, I can remember the sweet, warm milk in my baby bottle. I can still taste it, I really can. The milk was different…
