Two carrots

I overheard an intriguing conversation the other day. A child asked their mother, “What is the first thing you remember?” The more I pondered, the more I realised it's a complex question. The child’s mother replied, “The smell of Grandma’s apple pie.” A peculiar choice, as I've never experienced that aroma. The only thing I've ever smelled is carrot.

The child’s mother turned the question to her own daughter, Sally. “Well, Sally, what is your first memory?” Sally's eyes lit up, “Dad’s music. BANANANANA, THUNDER! BANANANANA… he really likes that song, and he plays it really loud when he drives.” Her mother chuckled and agreed. But it got me thinking, why are people's first memories often tied to smells or sounds?

My first memory was cold yet comforting. I remember rolling around until I came to a stop. I remember the touch of hands, fingers, sticks, and stones. Initially, I couldn’t see, hear, taste, or smell. But I could feel. Everything.

It took a while until I gained my other senses, but before I could do any of those things, I started to feel more. It began low, sensing the cold. The frozen ground, pebbles in my side, the comforting chill of the wind rushing past my back. I think it was my back? Suddenly, with a thump, I felt taller, feeling more of the breeze, nimble fingers scraping at my sides, trimming away the extra edges. Another thump, and once again I felt much taller, almost swaying in the breeze. This part seemed to last an eternity. The sense of touch overwhelmed me— a million sensations across me at once. Until finally, I could see.

A boy stood in front of me, donning a green jacket and black pants with a thick wooly hat. He smiled as he reached out to me, and suddenly, I could see even more. His smile was infectious, and I could feel a sense of pride emanating from him. I marvelled at the world through these wonderful eyes. The sky was a vast canvas of white, with delicate snowflakes gently descending from above. The boy's smile echoed in my snowy surroundings, creating a feeling that I could sense but not fully comprehend.

As I continued to absorb my newfound ability to see, the boy's features became clearer. His eyes sparkled with wonder, and his cheeks were rosy from the cold. I noticed the mittens he wore, adorned with tiny snowflakes that mirrored those falling around us.

The boy stepped back, admiring his creation. I realised that I was more than a passive observer. I was something more, something alive. He circled around me, inspecting every detail with a child's curiosity. He bent down and picked up something, orange, and once again reached out to me, pushing the front but steadying the back. It hurt a little, until all of a sudden. Carrots.. I could smell… carrots? He smilled as he walked behind me, out of view. I felt something clasp the top of my head, soft, warm, yet cold.. and suddenly I could hear. I heard him giggle as he continued rummaging around behind me, out of sight. I felt something sharp poke into my side on the left, then on the right. He came around into view again, giggling once more. He was obviously proud of his creation. Proud of me, and I of him.

The world around us was a winter wonderland, and I could sense the magic in the air. The sun painted the landscape in shades of blue and silver, casting long shadows across the glistening snow. Birds chirped in the distance, and I marvelled at the snowflakes caught in the sunlight.

Days turned into nights, and nights into days. I stood there, a silent observer of the changing days and nights. The crunch of footsteps in the snow, the distant laughter of children engaged in a snowball fight, and the hushed whispers of the wind—all became a part of my sensory world.

One chilly afternoon, a group of teenagers strolled into the winter landscape, their laughter echoing through the frosty air. They spotted me, adorned with scarves and hats, and a mischievous gleam sparked in their eyes. The leader of the group, a teenager with a mischievous grin, approached, holding a carrot.

With a wink to his friends, he leaned down and placed the carrot in front of me. Laughter erupted from the group as they exchanged amused glances.

Perplexed, I observed the carrot, the second one I had ever seen. It was different from the first, not nestled on my face but placed lower in front of me. I couldn't comprehend the meaning behind their actions. Why would they stick a carrot into me like that?

Unaware of the intended implication, I felt a sense of curiosity rather than embarrassment. It looked like a second nose, a peculiar addition to my features. I strained to understand why this new nose wasn't working as the first one did. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't smell anything from it, not even carrot. I looked at them, they only had one nose, the boy only had one nose, why, the only creature that has two noses I can think of are those strange dogs I see, spraying that tree across the road yellow. I wonder if I can do that too? As I sat in confused silence, thinking to myself, the teenagers continued their antics, chuckling at my ignorance. They mimicked noses, I think, and giggled amongst themselves, blissfully unaware of the innocent confusion they had sparked in me.

As the winter day unfolded, the teenagers eventually moved on, leaving me standing there with my dual noses—the original carrot and the peculiar addition they had given me. I gazed at the landscape, still captivated by the beauty of the winter wonderland, wondering about the mysteries of noses and the laughter of those who had come and gone.

Little did they know, their playful gesture had left me pondering the nature of noses, and as I stood there, a snowman with two carrots, I silently watch the ever changing landscape, waiting for the boy's return and the hands that would continue to shape my existence.

Oh, I lost my second nose by the way. The girl's mother scoffed at the sight of it, yanking it out with a mix of surprise and amusement. It was startling to say the least, but I’m glad it is gone. I’m not a dog after all. I watched as they walked further and further away, the girl and her mother still laughing about dads music. While I remained reminiscing on my first memories, all my memories. It’s always been cold, I love the cold but lately its getting warmer. The air no longer carries the biting cold that had defined my existence up to this point. Instead, it whispered promises of warmth, but I have noticed that with each passing day, my icy form is starting to to change. Exciting!

As excitement fills me as I looked forward to the arrival of the golden sun, a radiant ball of light that will paint the landscape in hues beyond my wintry palette. I imagine the world transforming into something new, something vibrant and alive. I marvel at the sky as it transitions from the crisp, cold blue to a softer, more inviting hue. The snowflakes that once fell around me now transformed into delicate droplets, glistening in the sunlight.

Like a fool I look forward to each dawn, eager to witness the golden sunrise that has captured my imagination.

My days turned into a melody of hope and unknowing surrender. I stand here, silently observing the changing seasons, eagerly awaiting the unforeseen climax that brings forth the vibrant colours of a new day, and little do I grasp that the warmth, which had promised life and renewal, was also the force that will usher in my inevitable end.

So as I long for the warmth that leads me to my ultimate transformation, a transformation I couldn't foresee, just like the boy who had given me life, the sun continues its ascent and I melt away leaving behind a memory etched in the winter landscape—a story born in the snow, and killed by the very thing I so desperately crave.