A scarf rests upon the old rocking chair my mother would sit in, while she sang me to sleep as a child.
The water colour scarf smells of acrylic paint and dusty cigars.
An old cloudy ash tray hangs off the side of a water-stained coffee table, just waiting to be emptied.
I don't want to move anything, because everything is where it is supposed to be.
I cannot tell you how I've longed for this moment. Where I can hear without listening, and taste without using my tongue.
These memories are the kind that become washed up and used repeatedly, until all that is left is laughter without volume.