No Name For It

I was going to the laundromat—

different street, no real reason,

just didn't want the usual way.

The hardware store had the door propped open

and the smell came before I reached it:

warm, chemical,

something sweet underneath

I couldn't find a word for.

I stopped.

One hand came up—

I noticed after—

like I was trying to hold the air still

long enough to trace it back.

I was eight years old.

I was somewhere safe.

That's all I got.

No room. No face. No specific morning.

Just the feeling of being small

and not afraid.

And then I was back on the sidewalk.

People going around me.

The smell already thinning.

I stood there longer than made sense.

Tried the obvious ones—

the garage, my grandmother's basement,

the inside of a car in summer.

Nothing landed right.

I walked the rest of the way to the laundromat.

Put the clothes in.

Sat with the machines going.

Whatever it is, it came from somewhere.

I was there.

I just can't get back to the door.