Right after I got off the Blue Line and onto the train platform, I dropped a glove. Before my brain was able to process the appropriate response my foot kicked the glove and it slid a ways across that dirty platform. The part that contacted the floor had a whitish gray powder -maybe Epsom salt? It looked like dust, like my glove was old and hadn’t been used for so long that dust had settled outside its folds.
I rode up the escalator and beat the glove against my coat. I detected the smelled of recently vacuumed carpets mingled with faint potpourri from somewhere or someone nearby. In the next moment I was a child in one of my grandma’s bright old apartments, climbing carpeted stairs, holding a tin cookie box of washable markers.
The dust, the smell, and the warmth of my puffy coat, did it. I must have smiled. I remember feeling loved, even then.