I spent yesterday afternoon packing things at my grandfather's house. It's one of very few physical places that seems to have remained the same since my childhood. I brought a few table linens home with me and their smell is almost intoxicating. It triggers an entire past lifetime of emotion in my core that suddenly I feel inclined to protect and preserve. Like, I better put these little buggers in a plastic bag otherwise I'll never again be able to remember what my childhood felt like.
