Vivid memory. On the farm. Late afternoon. July. In a field. Behind a tractor. Q

Vivid memory. On the farm. Late afternoon. July. In a field. Behind a tractor. Quiet. Crackling and ping of cooling engine parts. Standing on the soil. Wearing converse sneakers. Worn at the tip. Looking down into the irrigation ditch. It’s deep. I couldn’t get out if I fell in. At the bottom. Water. Clay. In mixes of grey, blue, purple, red, pink, brown. Look like they’re floating plastic bags. The smell of fresh earth, the rubber of the tires and some older man’s aftershave. The sun behind a man in overalls. The man to my left speaking. He speaks with empathy and understanding. But just sounds out of place. He makes me feel awkward. I bend and squeeze a lump of clay. It squeezes like plastic. Lines of blue-grey within red-brown. I throw it in the water to distract myself.

Smells create the most amazing moments of recall.