Alison Wells Author

I feel memories like an indentation, a pressing into or inside the flesh, a coagulation of associations, the smell of a strawberry candle, the sound of pigeon’s cooing, the journey into brown eyes, and always waves, or water of some kind, the splash of it, the smell of old upholstery in a recreation hall, the lift of pleasure, the descent of despair.

Scientists say that the organs in the body have their own internal memory, so do they look back on themselves over time, their workings, their trials, the impetus they began with? And what part of the body remembers love? Not necessarily the heart, although the memory does seem to reside behind the chest, perhaps in the lungs, in our very breathing, in our eyes, having taken in everything when now the image memory fades and we feel it dissolving, the press allieviating, our breath coming easier now.