chaosreactor

I remembered the smell of the air conditioner where I grew up. It was the scent, wafting from a fridge three feet away that made the aisles of grocery store seem more familiar to me than anywhere in the world. I savored the memory for a brief moment. I recalled the slender dial of the machine, 1970s era notching and fake wood paneling. I could see my tiny fingers running in between brown slats that tilted upwards in smart unison, at a delicate angle. Cold air that felt like nourishment, blasting, decompressing, hurled like a jet at my face. I could see the frost begin to form on the metal inside where my fingernails deflected the flow. A fine condensation mist funneled its way through the vents only to disappear when I removed my hand. It was elemental, the fine control of the forces of nature. There was a faint echo, sounding on a flat glass surface that dulled a solid moment where I could almost relive what it was like to be caught in a sense of wonder. It was the feeling of bliss, the very instant a child nearly felt what it was like to be a god.