It tastes like 1993 in the mouth of a long gone synesthetes.

by Amy Turn Sharp


A man I used to know told me that I tasted like purple and sometimes blue. He would lick the length of my leg and I would laugh like Willy Wonka comedy- all dark and scary. He told me his secrets and how he had colors all over his mind and that Bob Marley music made him taste purple which sort of made me corner grin as that meant Bob Marley tasted like me. It was confusing to listen to him tell me about his neuroscience knowledge. I just wanted him to sing. He would write things down on scraps of paper and I would watch his left hand fail to keep up with his thoughts. I have pretty much only been in serious relationships with left handed men. What does this mean? And he would point to the clock on the wall and we saw it so differently. We were not looking, only staring at each other.  But he was the person who taught me about memory mapping and the Loci method. I learned to make memory palaces so elaborate that they will never be ruins. I learned to take someone I loved apart and leave them places inside of the tiny white house I grew up in in Southeastern, Ohio. In cracks and corners and at bottoms of staircases made of old wood. In alcoves and on tables with wild flowers in buckets galore. I made maps of the people I loved. I make them all the time and I can never forget. I am making one of you right now.