Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Smoke


A very moist, warm air flow. Sixty degrees. Yesterday evening, the smoke from a neighbor’s fireplace hung low in the street, bound to the mist, the damp-scent to cling to one’s clothing and hair. We carried it in. It’s still here. We’re still there.



6 comments:

Jonathan Chant said...

Good to hear - I love that smell of smoke on clothes.

William Michaelian said...

It goes deep to the oldest part of us, I believe. Thanks, Jonathan.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

And you're still smokin'! ☺

William Michaelian said...

Ha!

*** said...

My friends were waiting by the front door as I sorted through a pile of coats at the foot of the stairs in search of my jacket. I looked up just as a handful of teens were coming in from the porch. A young woman in the front of the pack looked up at me and asked if the coat she was wearing was mine. I said I believed that it was. She took it off and handed it to me, pointing out that she once had one much like it. That was all she said.

As I put on the coat that was never really missing, I zipped it up tight - detecting a hint of smoke. I had assumed that she or one of her peers had gone outside to light up. My theory proved wrong the moment our turn came to go out for a walk. The sweet smoke of fireplaces was surely the source - maybe one or maybe 100 fires burning. Who could say and why ask. It was a few degrees below chilly on Thanksgiving evening in Washington DC - a strangely beautiful place for me to be in the company of strangers and a short list of close friends. The night sky clear ... the somewhat new moon slung low, felt near.

"We carried it in. It’s still here. We’re still there."

William Michaelian said...

Yes, it is. Yes, we are. Along with the magic, now, of your beautiful note.