Curtains

I often think about my grandmother's sun-drenched living room curtains. They were sheer and white and fluttered outwards in the summer when the breeze would float in through her second-story window. Gram washed the curtains regularly, but somehow, they always smelled of dust. In the summer, they'd absorb the smell of the window screen, and linen, dust, and thin metal would create a strange, light, aroma.

I liked to sit in the sunbeams that would pop up on the cheap cornflower blue rug in that living room. Those little rectangles were perfect for a warm nap. The big desk between the windows would be my pillow, my knees would be against my chest, and the curtains would slowly dance across my side, wafting that scent, the one that became the smell I associate most with summer. Those sunbeams never felt as good in the spring, and I can't imagine napping on Gram's floor now.