Cellar Air

That cold hit, that bookstore's

dank back room, a concrete sigh.

Suddenly, I'm seven, maybe eight,

trying to tie my shoes, waiting

for Grandma. The damp earth

from the stone walls, thick with apples

turning soft in their bins,

and jars of sour cherry jam

stacked high. That air, heavy

and still. A scent of things

held in dark, preserved,

yet still decaying, slow.

It settles on my tongue, dust

and sweet rot. A quiet hum

of something that was once alive,

now just a memory, breathing cold.

And I'm back, in that chill,

trying to hold my breath.