My first memory

I recently was given a mere ten minutes to re-assemble my first memory. It was a frantic reconstruction void of all order. At some point in time, unbeknownst to me, my brain brain decided on complete English language anarchy. I am at the mercy of my mind; my english now is void of all punctuation, with rogue capitalization and every third word misspelled. Thankfully spell check restored order and this is what was left, my first memory:

It still tingles in my nostrils all these years later. It has a heavy weight about it; as it somehow floats through the air, seemingly defying gravity. It smells like nothing living, yet doesn’t reek of the pungent putrid smell of death. My first memory does not have visual images, or audible sounds, but rather just a highly sensual touch my fingertips will always remember and a smell that is burned onto my olfactory bulb: my grandma’s hideous shag carpet. It was this carpet I spent much of my childhood tooling through. The carpet had a distinct smell, unique to perhaps one place on earth, 19622 Delight Street. It smells a little of musk, a little of dust, a little of drab and a lot like my childhood. It smelled like the haze that oozes forth from an aged recliners upon receiving a heavy load. Yet, for all the dreary smells it was composed of, it had a tinge of life to it, like spring was always just one more rain and month of sun from bursting forth from within it. It smelled like neither the ground nor the sky. It was somehow simultaneously soft and kind under your hand, yet, rough and devastating under your knee. One could simultaneously slide into the deep sleep of a content heart, or slide into a bleeding rub burn, hoping you took the lesson to heart. The carpet felt, above and beyond all else, like home. It was here I spent much of my infancy eating and sleeping; then slowly scooting, crawling; hobbling, wobbling and falling.