a pear grew, its orb tender and sweet

i'm older now. and the ululations of the days seem more pronounced - an endless stream of workweeks and weekends. time seems to be a river, and our memories float down, beginning in a porcelain bowl where a japanese woman litters paper into the water to watch it take shape and color, becoming flowers, houses, people, concerts in muddy fields at midnight, only to place it all in the river and watch them float away, sighing incredible sweetness.

i woke up early this morning and played "mistaken for strangers" by the national. it hardly fit the circumstances, but it felt cool and eerily appropriate:

"you have to do it running but you do everything that they ask you to
cause you don’t mind seeing yourself in a picture
as long as you look faraway, as long as you look removed
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters
showered and blue-blazered, fill yourself with quarters

you get mistaken for strangers by your own friends
when you pass them at night under the silvery, silvery citibank lights
arm in arm in arm and eyes and eyes glazing under
oh you wouldn’t want an angel watching over
surprise, surprise they wouldn’t wannna watch
another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults"

i stood before the bathroom mirror in my boxer shorts and lathered my face with shaving cream. it's a daily habit of mine. shaving, that is. but today an odd thing occurred. i smelled of four years old. as proust recognized the taste of the madeleine cookie soaked in a decoction of lime-flower tea and felt happy, recognizing his childhood in combray, i felt four years old.

at four, i remember watching my father shave in front of the mirror. he had on only his underwear and v-neck t-shirt, lathering his face with cream and shaving in front of the mirror. i thought it was the coolest thing. whenever my parents asked me what i wanted for christmas that year, i told them i wanted a razor to shave with dad. i got a toy razor that christmas in my stocking. from then on, he'd give me a dab of cream and i'd wipe it off, mimicking his motions with the toy, plastic razor.

at five, catching fireflies in glass jars on the fourth of july. the sound of parties in the suburbs - expensive laughter and cheap food - the fireflies i let loose as the fireworks shot into the sky.

at six, joining my mother in the herb garden. it was early autumn; the leaves were beginning to turn. barefoot in the garden, the cool breeze, pant legs rolled up, "i really like this, mom." i said. "you're so romantic, liam." she said. it felt mushy at six. i probably said something along the lines of... "no."

i stepped into the shower feeling that acute sense of melancholy happiness. i smiled. the circle of myself turned up at the corners. the world dropped gently all around.

a leaph phluttered outside the window.