#olfactorybulb

Man, I love lighting it up. You know the one, you’ve used it a lot to help you remember your way. Where you’ve been really. I don’t think I’ve known a bulb that lives in the past, but this one does.

You first used it at birth. It lit up and gave you that connection with your mother. One that is most likely the strongest you’ll ever have.

I came across it the other day too. Always surprises me what is stored in the bulb. Oh, I forgot to mention its a magical storage bulb. Not one sold at the markets, not sold for a dime.. Or a dollar or a cheeky shake of a deal.

You carry it with you. I’ll share some of mine.

I found it. The rolled out canvas of a borrowed swag and a memory. That musky sealed smell took me back to being wrapped in a Driza-bone out of the rain but by a fire. Getting as warm and staying as dry as you can when the weather is wishing different. My younger soul. It must of been Easter camping, but I’m not sure exactly. Times like that make me feel old.

That factory smell of plastic reminds me of my grandfather who refused to take the packaging off the sofa bed, even in the middle of summers dread. It was hilarious to see people try to sit up, in a rush, as they were jarred back to flat from the sweaty stick.

One of my favourite is the smell of that rolling rain moving in to wash all your troubles away. The bulb pushes out that comforting feeling of being under the verandah enjoying the lightning orchestra sing..

I mean it’s kind of hard to talk about. I have so much packed in there that when it happens and my pasts leaks, it’s fleeting. That detailed memory goes as quick as it came. It’s hardly the same. But I’ll take it.

My heart must be connected too by strings to the bulb. It stops sometimes. It can be awfully bold. As my heart beats again, with the memory fading, it’s hard not to own the smile of mine.