The smell of spring brings memories from under snowfall.
Things half-remembered and merely inconsequential.
Like how my office smells
like my grandparents’ old apartment building.
I was only seven or eight, maybe younger. I remember
a pool, a hallway; the way we ate bagels every morning.
This is merely because here and there
they used the same chemicals to clean the tiled floors.
And so we become pieces of ourselves;
become the lies we told ourselves as children:
firemen, astronauts and veterinarians.