When visiting nana, most likely to be shrouded in a saccharine crystalline substance.
Strawberries may not be in season but recently I have been glimpsing punnets sitting high on shop shelves: jewelled and glowing, basking in their own glory aside the dullness of the commonplace honeycrisp apples. Suddenly I am eight years old again, sitting at my nana’s dining table, savouring every last bite of the sugar adorned fruit.
Dulcet filaments pin themselves to my youthful, soft lips and I struggle to resist darting my tongue across my mouth to seek this extraneous sweetness. Mummy doesn’t coat our strawberries in sugar at home but with nana it’s always been our little treat. Our little secret. The charming berry touches my seeking tongue, nectarous and ambrosial. A single bite releases succulent juices, flooding the crevices of my mouth, taste buds intoxicated.
Isn’t it dumbfounding to reflect on the moments of our lives we can remember with the most vividness; the veracious recollections of tone, taste and texture? Smells, sounds and sights? I can’t remember for the life of me how I was dressed on my tenth birthday, or the way I wore my hair on the first day of school, or even possess the ability to recreate that recent feeling of fret upon the momentous opening of the envelope holding my GCSE results.
And yet I can cast my mind back to sitting at that dining table, dressed with a cloth of pristine white, reaching forwards with my podgy paws to steal the precious trinkets from nana’s treasured crystal-cut bowl. Why, as if it were yesterday.