Okay. The hardest part about this was the title (changed twice), and, well, the last word, which has been changed three times already. Both still in jeopardy.
I wrote a really great opening line for last week’s Friday Fictioneers (Our love was as dead as the frost-nipped, snow-laden roses in the north garden.) but never got back to it. This is what they mean by best intentions. Anyway, I’ve finally managed to reappear. Many thanks to Rochelle who never lets us down and always appears.
Welcome to the Now
The scents have changed. Curry and fish sauce hover where once it was cabbage, bacon, barbecue sauce. Every step I take reminds me of when my grandmother lived in this building. Sometimes I dream of it still, visiting “Mom” as we called her.
Now I live on the upper floor. My vista not one she had of a wildflower field and evergreens, but of townhouses, concrete, not a tree in sight.
My neighbors and I nod behind our masks, but never interact. I only know their names via exchanges amongst themselves.
I settle down to a microwave dinner. Unscented. Bland.