Go outside. Onto your front porch
or into the parking lot. Breathe. In through your nose. Do you smell it? The barky,
brownish-gray scent of smoke? Someone nearby must have lugged a portion of
their woodpile inside and arranged it just so in the orifice of their hearth. Perhaps
they then sprinkled it with a handful of fallen leaves from an oak or maple, pressed
a button, and Floom! Flame emerged
from a long-handled lighter. Created coziness.
Inhale
again. Is there something else? Indeed there is--the fragrance of the clouds
when they prophesy, “Snow soon.” I love that ice-blue perfume, grin as it stirs
remembrance on the inside of me. Do the math. Smoke somewhere + snow soon = my
happiness.
I’m
craving another scent and I know how to make it happen. I enter my house from the evening
dog walk and search determinedly for a box of matches. Here they are. So much
better than a book of them. Uniform and diminutive, stand-at-attention-wearing-red-hats, suicide bombers. One or more of them will sacrifice themselves in the fire for the greater
good—my olfactory pleasure.
The
lid of the candle jar settles on the entryway’s tabletop with a
hula hoop’s 'round and 'round frenzy followed by a metallic Ca-lank! A pale redhead skitters across
the strike strip then Fuwah! Becomes
a brilliant, quivery tulip of light. Petal points twitch and sway when the
furnace exhales with a grunt. Down into the charred jar I tuck my flame-bearing
fingers. Kiss the black-blossomed wick with orange and purple. Invisible wafts
of butter, yeast, and cinnamony sweetness rise. So does a corner of my mouth.
I
hurry to the entrance and unchain, unbolt, swing back the old, carved door. Elbow open the newer, top-to-bottom-glass storm door. I restrain the
latter with my hip. Notice the slap of straight bitter cold on
my left cheek. Relish the golden dry house heat on my right. I gather the night again.
In through my nose. Fill my lungs completely with the knowledge of fire
somewhere, snow soon, and imaginary treats baking. This, these, I love.
