Creta

In August we went to the drug store
And walked through the illuminated linoleum aisles
For something I can't recall.
Mama stopped in her tracks and gasped and cooed
At the shelves stocked with Crayola crayons
In their yellow cardboard boxes with the green corners,
Glossy and new, the flaps smooth and intact,
Something that would be lost to sticky, prying fingers.

Mama plucked a box from the shelf,
Gently tugging back the top tab
With a perfectly rounded finger nail.
Inside packed snugly sat sixteen crayons,
Their coned tops still smooth and perfect,
Their polished finishes gleaming. They were still
Cloaked in their paper jackets,
With their clean edges, not yet peeled away,
Cast aside, leaving their owners
Nameless.

Mama raised the box to her nose and took a deep breath.
"Smell," she said, passing the box to me.
I inhaled the musty, waxy smell of elementary school,
Of coming home after an 8 year old's day,
Sitting down at the coffee table
Alone, and drawing in silence.
The olfactory memories blurred and drowned my brain
In melted wax.
I sat there sniffing hungrily, like it was some bizarre new form
Of huffing paint or sniffing glue,
This intoxicative inhalant that got me high off
Psychedelic memories of my own childhood.

"That smell never changes," Mama says.