Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Yeti, the secret scent

Floating, driving, missing a flight? Common enough. Finding extra rooms? Probably the result of melancholic, maternally-guided sojourns into the sawdust of the rooms above the basement in which she’d grown up. “This would’ve been the sewing room.” (Huh? You hated sewing, Mama.) A street with beautiful shops? Her mother dreamt it too, not truly an explanation. But unique to her were the white fur-covered people. They arrived in dreams after her first Coke (age eight), and Cokes thereafter. As if her cells were deeply programmed to cry “Yeti!” whenever neroli and nutmeg, coriander and lime let slip across their campfires.


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