When I used to think of heat I would think of that turquoise skirt that I wore for three summers straight. It was a hand-me-down from a cousin, and it had pockets and a flower etched onto its copper button and it was much shorter than any of the other skirts I owned, especially by the third summer. I would think of that skirt, or of being cajoled into family bike rides which never really ended, as promised, at the ice- cream shop, or of reading sleepily on the sand and waking up to discover an inky, inverted imprint of somebody else’s words on my sweaty cheek. Now, I still think of these things, but I think too of my shoes sinking slightly in damp soil that steamed in the morning sun. I think of the mango tree that I used to pass every day on my bike, and its carpet of fermenting fruit that simmered in the afternoon heatwaves. I think of sleeping on top of white bedsheets, with the fan on at the highest setting and the window open.
When I used to think of dancing I would think of ceilidhs. I would think of the first ceilidh I had in secondary school, and of that tall ginger boy in sixth year who lifted any girl he thought he could manage right off her feet, including me. I would think of sweaty hands wiped hastily on dresses and blazers. I would think of my beloved red felt pumps, tucked carefully under a wooden bench. When I am in the mood to dance, I do still think of that first ceilidh, and of sweat and red shoes. More often than not though, my mind wanders to clubs that were like windowless boxes with smoke curling along the walls and rhythm bounding through the floor and up legs, wrapping itself around waists and pulsing in ears.
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When I used to think of first loves I would think of Harry, my first boyfriend and the only boy I have ever brought to the house to stay for the weekend. I would think of blushing when he called me ‘Babe’ in the kitchen. I would think of us kissing on the driveway, my back against a rock, wet from the pale moss. I used to know exactly where it was that we kissed, but not anymore: when I walk down the driveway I get muddled up and lose interest in trying to remember again. When someone talks about first kisses now, it is Demelso’s lips, smooth and warm, that I feel pressed against mine. I think of the black waves that rocked us gently as we sat in a stranger’s docked boat amongst green fishing rope and polystyrene boxes and hid from the day.
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When I used to think of home I thought of it in blue and white. Now, when I think of home my mind feels like a jewellery box full of beautiful chains and charms that have woven themselves into a glittering knot of entanglement. With every person or place that I come to love, another necklace is slipped into the box, and I have stopped trying to pick them apart. Now, when I close my eyes I don’t always picture hydrangeas and fresh milk and foam bubbling on the surface of the loch. Sometimes I picture Sam walking along a dry country road, talking about David Bowie. Sometimes I picture Michael, snow clinging to his jacket as he pulls his favourite green hat over his ears. Sometimes, I picture palm trees and a gold paw-print charm and the miniature mountains and valleys of the Maroni’s surface when it rains.