Sense Memory Journal, Essay Example

Underneath the gable of the front porch, I place my feet on the white wooden steps. The paint has worn away in the center of the steps, and the wood is slowly disappearing beneath the tread of many visitors. My nose is thick with the humidity that rises in vapors from the hedge bushes surrounding the steps as the morning sun dries the leaves.

I grasp the brass doorknob with my fingers. The metal cools the palm of my hand. It has been a few years since I have entered the house in this manner, and it feels unfamiliar. The door opens with a slight sucking vacuum which brings a smell of staleness with it.

I enter the foyer and notice the flowers in the vase on the table are slightly wilted. They are all purple hued, and some of the petals of the various flowers has fallen onto the mahogany surface of the table. A slightly rotten smell emanates from the vase. To my left is the living room, and for some reason, I feel compelled to enter it.

A familiar green wingback chair rests in the same corner it has since I was a child. I do not hear any other voices in the house, so I go and sit. The upright position of the chair is uncomfortable. I am used to slouching, and since the chair does not recline, I cannot relax. I pull an afghan from the back of the chair and drape it over my legs.

Beside me, on a table, rests an old leather photo album. The placard on the front is labeled simply, “Family.” It is an old album full of pictures from my youth. I flip through the pages whose corners are now yellowed with age. As I flip, I smell old library books. Eventually, one particular photo catches my interest. I am around seven years old in the photo, and I am dressed in a white shirt and red shorts. My socks are pulled up to my knees and my hair is cut short. I am standing under a sign that reads “Happy Valley Campground.” But, something about the photo that I have never noticed before catches my attention. In the background, to my immediate right, there is an orange backpack leaned up against a tree.

Suddenly I am struck by a realization. After returning from our family camping trip, there was a news story about a missing hiker in Happy Valley. Was this her backpack? How close was I to this event? A chill prickles the skin on my neck.