I was born and raised in Los Angeles. I remember 60 degree autumn weather and fading brown leaves littering the sidewalk. A few still held on for a few more weeks but alas, they all ended up as music to my ears as I stomped and crunched them to oblivion.
I remember the smells. The smell of a fading summer. It was like the smell of someone’s lingering cologne, in which you would instinctively look around for the source. You would perhaps see the back of someone walking away into the distance but you were never sure.
I remember my runny nose. My body was already spoiled from the California weather. My nose would promptly run at the first dip below 70 degrees. I remember wiping it on the sleeve of a horrid light-blue denim jacket. I hear a loud honk. I always forgot that my mom never left promptly. I furiously wave and walk faster.
The sun had yet to make it’s full appearance and there is a amber glow spilling over the horizon. I squint and shield my eyes. It’s another busy day for hopscotch, handball, chocolate milk and Lunchables.
I wanted to be 18. Not even sweet 16 but 18. Didn’t you know? You had to be 18 years or older to purchase anything on TV. 😉