anti:freeze

A shiny green bead had fallen from the drawstring on my skirt. I was panicked. It had belonged to my grandmother, and it was the last known physical trace of her life. I was crawling on the living room carpet, pressing my palms into the fibers and rubbing. My tooth fillings contracted and ached, the way they always do when calloused skin scrapes against fabric, or when cold winter wind chills the metal. Or when metal chair legs are dragged across a tile floor. It's a strange kind of synethesia, and not the only kind I experience.

Then, suddenly, I was awake, with my right hand gripping the handle of a vacuum cleaner. Sleepwalking again. On the floor in front of me, a tiny bead reflected light from the VCR. But it was too late. The vacuum sucked it up.

Strange, I thought. My grandmother never gave me a bead.

note to Wendy, since we're exploring the idea of notebooks: this was a simultaneous post to my other blog, alchemy. Usually, I don't do this, but for some reason, it felt right for both.

*update: alchemy has since been changed to reflect a forensics theme, so this post no longer appears there.