At midnight, the fridge remains open, breathing a blue light. Memory blooms among shiny cans and trembling frozen goods. Each shelf is a petal of time that smells of lemon. Nomads of the past crowd the shelves without asking permission. From the whirring of the fan, a flower of memory is born. Cold petals open among trembling lights and forgotten bread. To open the chill is to open a window onto yesterday. I close the door, and remains the echo of that scent that will not leave.