Writing by Rosie Knudsen
They say your nose remembers most.
Mine holds the honeysuckle
that grew between the panes of our window. It spread, making deltas on the ceiling.
Sinking into the carpet flooring,
I watched the flowers above me budding.
Me and my sister,
we sucked the juice out of the stems,
bittersweet nectar dripping.
Liquid drying on our chins—all sticky.
I worry I’m losing memory.
My nose now has trouble breathing.
The fresh scent of spring brings me back
to my dad depressed.
Three-year-old me trying to fix him,
became scared of greening.
Little fingers pinched her father’s nostrils tightly– trying to stop his scent from numbing.
Now I’m loving someone new;
But he’s on the same wheel of bipolar thinking. And it keeps spinning, and I keep giving
love until he wants to be living.
I was told to “Turn the worry to love.”
But worry is my intimacy.
I know, I’m justifying unreasoning,
stuffing my nose with pollen and plugs
to feel nothing.
