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Ann Christine Tabaka
Scented memories waft through the air.
Expectations widen the eyes of hope,
brushing away cobwebs from
the lost corners of time.
Synapses fire off as muted sounds
of distant voices manifest themselves
among the garbled words of blank faces.
History in reverse, snippets resurfacing,
if only for a moment.
That old chair seems familiar,
was it always there?
Grocery lists piled up on the table,
mixed in with last week’s mail.
Forgotten love letters reaching back
into the bottom drawers of an old credenza,
thread bare and finger worn.
Recollections play lost and found
in the recesses of shadowed dreams;
while the aromas of another time
make it all seem so close and real again,
if only for a short time.
The sweet memory of scent.
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