Camera

Supermarket. The ceiling soars into an industrial cathedral and gives the fresh food section a feeling of open air. Along the wall lined up refrigerated cases filled with mounds of green leaves, the mister opens up and dampens my sunglasses. The rows of fruit and vegetables snake maze-like, a labyrinth of reds and greens and oranges. The air smells scrubbed, with the earthy musk long sprayed away. Plastic clamshells form a jewel box to display perfectly formed strawberries. Five corn cobs, cleared of all extra silk and leaves lie on a black foam tray cello-sealed in. They look like clones, all sprung from the same plastic corn. The tomatoes are in season, and there is a mountain of red beefsteaks piled into a chaotic pyramid in a bin near the door. I can't find the blueberries, but I feel they must be here somewhere. 

I don't know why I remember

I don't know why I remember playing in the parked camper van.  My parents had a conveniently rust coloured Dodge camper van they kept parked in the open field of the backyard. My sister and I used to climb in and play.  I am sure we were not supposed to be in there, I am not sure why it wasn't locked.  It often was - we would reach up to the push button chrome door handle and find it bolted tight.  Those times it wasn't there was not great appeal to the interior, nothing that would particularly attract to young girls. The air was dry and dusty, smelling of trapped sunshine and stagnation.  There was a little counter with a cooktop, a small mildewy sink and cupboards covered with dark wood grain laminate.  The back of the van had two orange plaid bench seats and a table top. Sometimes the table was collapsed down and the plaid cushions spread out to make one large bed area.  It was always too warm in the van, and there were always strange remnants of the last trip cluttering up the corners - forgotten colouring books, clear green plastic salt and pepper shakers, unbreakable beer mugs. There were also sneaky spiders who crept in and made elaborate webs around the steering column. It was an odd refuge where we would play elaborate games of make believe. I can't remember the games, I only remember the playing.