Shifting details

I don’t recognize the details until they begin to shift, the sweet scent of my grandparent’s garage, overlaid with the feel of the carpet under my feet, as the door downstairs clicks shut. I can’t tell you what changed, but something is different. All my clothes smell wrong, even after I wash them, but especially after I wash them back home. As far back into my wanderings as I can remember, when the stars were still clear in the sky, I would look down at the knees of my threadbare pants, instead of up at anyone else I passed. I can’t remember how I used to make eye contact with them, or if I used to avoid it entirely.

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