Lying awake in my bed at my grandmother's house, I was hit (quite painfully actually) with the feeling that I was no longer a child, that I am twenty years old, with a very foggy future and a strong sense of uncertainty creeping up my spine. All that's left of my infancy are smells, noises and images. All mingled and tangled as cause of the years that passed and buried them under layers and layers of dust and forgetfulness.
If you close your eyes, can you remember how your childhood smelled like? I can: of fresh air, home baked bread, of flour and spices, of vegetables and fruits, of wild flowers and grass. I remember the scent of burned dry leaves and the mixture of gas and ashes with which my grandmother would light the fire.
I recall faint noises: the dogs barking, the cat purring, the old radio playing music in the background, the sound of my grandmother's spindle, the cracking of the fire in the old glazed stove.
Behind my eyelids I can see piles and piles of white snow, a black dog trying hard to push me in the biggest one of them, a dusty attic filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes, my favorite hiding place, right in the middle of the living room, under chairs and blankets; the exact spot between the bed and the stove where I would play with my dolls and everything seemed possible.
What do you remember?