Lilting melodies fill the air. In the garden there is a bench of wrought iron. It has been painted white. No allergies exist here. Some sort of lukewarm Eden. The sound system is hidden in the trees, like we are at some Las Vegas pool in the too-early springtime. Foliage grows and is extra green. Greener than sour apple Jolly Ranchers in a candy dish outside the receptionist’s window at the local optometrist’s. I still see it clearly. A maiden sits in a white dress of lace, a large doily. She has blonde ringlets that are perfectly coiled and fall accidentally, only in a way a Hollywood producer could arrange. Aversion to Los Angeles. The air smells Willy Wonka sweet. Something saccharine. Something smoky. Something that cannot be placed, or cross-referenced in the brain of one amply experienced. Words on the tip of tongue, fences and gates push forward then inwards. A memory, half-dipped in morning coffee, getting crumbly and mushy, falls away from the cookie body, to be retrieved at the bottom of the mug, once the coffee has been drunk. Celebratory holiday affair.
