Memory

Five for Ten hosted by Momalom.com

I think I was ten or eleven.  It was a cold, rainy, snowy evening. Other than my cold red cheeks, I was warm inside my winter coat.  My mother and I were going Christmas shopping.  This was big.  This was huge; it was rare that I got my mother to myself without one of the other Klingons hanging around.

I remember my winter boots.  I remember my mom's winter boots.  I remember her winter-proof, water-proof (probably bullet-proof) Skanska Cement-gjuteriet winter coat; it was just so big.  I remember the smell of cigarette smoke. I remember the bright headlights from cars, the streetlights, and lights in the storefronts, and the way they all reflected off the wet pavement.  I remember the smell of Christmas in the air.

I remember walking across the street, feeling the wet, slushy rain on my face.  My mother, smiling at me as she took my hand in hers and tucked them both in her enormous, warm winter coat pocket.