If you were a deprived of one of your senses for years and then given the chance to choose one thing to perceive for one minute with that sense, what would it be?To smell:

To hear:

To taste:

To touch:

To see:

This is just the kind of stuff Ryan loves to think about. But Christ, what a minefield for such a sentimental fool as I. So, no surprise I was first to respond. And it happened to arrive on what would have been my brother Chris’s 41st birthday. Here’s my fresh-off-the-top-of-my-head response:

Well, first thing that comes to mind:

To smell: my husband’s neck
To hear: my brother’s laugh, which I barely remember
To taste: The sandwiches my grandmother used to make
To touch: Kev’s hand
To see: toughest one. First thing that comes to mind is my little garden, but that seems absurd, except that I love it so much.

I’ve been thinking about this list since I sent it. None of these are the most intense expressions of their respective senses. When Sarah answered, she was all about intensity… fresh brewed dark roast, fresh pasta with tomato sauce. Purity of sense. For me. the first thing that came to mind was experiences that are lost to me even without the artificial construct Ryan devised.

My brother had the most amazing laugh, but I can barely capture it with even the edges of my mind and memory. I remember only that it was amazing and it always made me laugh too. Maybe it was a little high pitched somehow? A little incongruous to his tall, dark person. I think I remember that it overtook him completely. I wish I could remember it. I would give anything to hear it again.

Alright, and then those sandwiches. It doesn’t even matter what was in them, nor that it’s been more than thirty years since I’ve had one. Noni died back in 1977, when I was seven years old, but oh god those sandwiches. On chewy Italian rolls, spread with butter. Then fresh tomatoes, most likely, and some kind of cold cut perhaps? Like I said, I don’t remember what was in them exactly, just that my grandmother made them and they tasted so fucking good.

Touch is the sense I would miss the least. Not that I don’t love to hold Kev’s hand, I surely do. But the other senses, the memories they bring immediately to mind, are so much more immediate, so much more evocative. When god forbid the day comes that I am on my own, I will long for the smell of Kevan’s neck. I know this from where I stand now, so I breathe deeply in its presence as often as I can in the hopes of filing it somewhere accessible.

And as for my little garden, I tried so hard for that to not be my answer. It seems so trivial. And yet, I have such a lively catalogue in my head, and I live so far from my family and the dailiness of their lives, and I have lost so many of the lovely sights of my life (my father’s hands working, my brother’s face laughing, all my grandparents looking proud). And I can see those sights again when I am quiet and still. And in my little garden, gazing at the flowers and the unfolding green, and the work Kev did to make it so very peaceful, when I am there and only there… not regretting yesterday and not anticipating tomorrow … then I can see those lovely sights again.