Senses
September 24, 2007
Clinking bottles.
The clinking of bottles is all I hear, followed by the muffled sound of voices. The sound that the bottles make immediately takes me back to my childhood when my family would buy these tall and slender pop bottles in packs of six from the grocery store. The ones with the logos printed on them so thick that if you ran your finger across the front of the bottles you could actually feel the raised edge of the ink.
I would use my dirty little kid fingernails to try and scrape the big D off the Dr. Pepper. The little bubbles of fizz around the Sprite. I never gave it much of a fight.
I know it seems strange now, but back then when you were done drinking a pop you would put the empty back into the cardboard carrier and return them to the grocery store on your next visit. We were recycling before you actually had to recycle. Putting the cart before the horse. Before the horse got hoof and mouth disease and had to be turned into glue.
The earth will be one giant glue ball.
When you placed the empty back or when you were carrying the six packs, the bottles would tap each other producing a playful clinking sound. This is a very unique sound, a sound which has no sister or even cousin sound for that matter. It is unmistakable when heard.
It has always intrigued me how a sound or scent can bring a flood of memories back faster and that are more vivid than the sight of something can. Hearing and smell are always taking a back seat to sight. They are the red-headed step children of the Senses family.
I’m lying on my back.
I can feel a thin layer of moisture covering most of my body, but I feel it mostly on my eyelids. Maybe this is because the eyes are such a sensitive part of the body. Since I can feel it on my eyelids I know that my eyes are closed.
My hands are at my sides and just as I used to run my fingers across the ink of the pop bottle, I run them across the ground where I lay. The course bumps with loose grit settled in the nooks let me know I am lying on cement. That, and the fact that my tailbone, shoulder blades, and the back of my head are numb from trying their best to block out the discomfort.
Your remaining senses heighten when you take one away.
When I touch the ground with my eyes closed I can feel it much better than if they were open. The possible choices for what I am touching immediately narrows. I can feel it so well I can almost guess the color and type of cement. I say “Gray Portland” to myself in my head.
Shortly after I touch my fingertip to the cement I touch the tip of my tongue to the bottom edge of my top front teeth. The feeling is identical. Course bumps and loose grit.
Chipped teeth.
“White Portland” I joke to myself in my head, though no laughter will be following this thought.