1. The fur collar on the fire department jacket my dad had when I was a little girl. It was the softest thing I'd ever felt and I loved to rest my face against it and stroke it with my fingers when he came home from work. It always smelled like smoke (from various burning things, not cigarettes) and something undefined. These are still the smells that I associate with Dad. Smoke and something else.
2. Spending the night at my grandparents' house. (My mother's parents.) The sheets on the bed were super smooth from hundreds of washings and always cool. There was an egg crate, upside down, under the sheet and I loved to run my fingers over the bumps. I could hear the tick of the big clock in the living room and put myself to sleep with it's steady rhythm, only to be startled awake when it chimed the hour. I have a set of these sheets, but, sadly, they don't fit on either bed.
3. The first time a boy kissed me. On a school bus, me half asleep and cold under his jacket. We were on our way to a speech and debate tournament at 4 o'clock in the morning and I couldn't keep my eyes open. He was singing me songs, all the "rock ballads", and his voice was surprisingly good. Then suddenly he kissed me and I was too surprised and sleepy to know what to do. I never even opened my eyes. He called me Vicky, my character's name in our duet acting piece. I've always wondered if he was kissing me or her.