21.04.2012 in17:37 in City scape, architecture -->
American photographer living in Central Massachusetts.
At dusk someone passes me on the street wearing my grandmother’s perfume. I turn but there is nobody there. The scent lingers, hangs in the drowning light. It reminds me of so many things. Images race through my mind like film through a reel. Salmon colored cabinets in the kitchen and linoleum made to look like brick. Her piano at the end of the hall. Her original Elvis 45s. Her books, walls of books, which, when I was a child, she would read to me on a bed the size of a continent. The cold, blood red floor in her bedroom. Enormous leaning trees in the parlor corner at Christmas, cluttered with bubbling, blinking ornaments. The smell of coffee. Her white shirts and tennis shoes. So many things. The fireworks of memory.