"When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory"
-Marcel Proust "The Remembrance of Things Past"
Watermelon. One whiff, one minuscule drop of its sweet juice on my tongue, and I am immediately transported to the spirit of summers past - those endless days which were spent running through sprinklers, constructing subterranean abodes for little creatures, and building secret hideouts. Those sweet, long summers of childhood. I love speculating that with every joyful, juicy bite, with every drippy, sticky chin, these children are constructing their own happy memories of summer.