FLASH DRIVES: Flash narratives and random contemplations imagined while driving from one place to another
I don’t drive often, but when I do, my thoughts go wild. Whether I’m crossing a bridge, heading down a highway, or making my way through a neighborhood, the strangest things come to mind. The subject matter varies widely, the contemplations forgotten once I reach my destination. Through Flash Drives, I plan to remember them and share them with you.
There must have been a house there, I realized as I drove by the other day. It had nagged me, why every time I drove down Hawthorne, passing the cinema at the jog on 20th, I thought of roses. Red trellis roses, blooming profusely on white lattice, overtop our heads. A night as soft as cat fur.
Now there is only a blocky building, some sort of condos, with an empty storefront facing the street—another COVID victim, I suppose. It had been there a while. So why the thought of roses?
Then it came to me. Before COVID, before the storefront and the condos, that corner must have held a house.
But I need to go back. Summer, maybe 1977. Had we been to a movie and then were walking home? All I recall is the warmth of the night and the shadow of the roses. It must have been important to me though, because to this day, every time I drive by, I smell their intoxicating scent.