XV: planted

I miss the salty smell of play-doh. Sometimes if I focus on it I can bring the aroma so close to my nostrils that my eyes water, and to think! this reaction, only by forceful thinking! I am not wearing socks and I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling red play-doh into a ball between the palms of my hands. I am nineteen, but no one is looking. I rip a tiny piece off, I look left, I look right, I close my eyes and put it in my mouth. I still carry myself as a child in my heart, but until when? I swallow the play-doh, the small seed, and hope.