it smells like the bonfire season of my youth. my four-foot, stringy-haired, fantasy-filled youth.
i’d run around in my mom’s green down jacket from Greenwich Village, or her orange-wool poncho, that I have now. fight with my sister over the best marshmellow roasting-twig. rake piles of leaves, then jump in them and bury myself with them, getting dirt and bugs all over me. at night there were strange campfire hymns that enveloped me. i was warm in the cold. i was safe in the night. there were comforting animal noises and there was chilled-air in my nostrils.
like now, without the leaves, the campfire, the hymns, the animals, the dirt, bugs, marshmellows, the brat-fights, the green down jacket, the running, the falling, the skinning my knees.
now, i don my poncho, and the oversized cozy socks with the stupid rubber lining on the bottom so i don’t skin my knees. drink my instant cocoa, and roast marshmellows on my stove.
i wish i knew a lot of my friends now as they were as young children at a campfire. telling scary stories that really weren’t scary. singing songs in a cacophonic harmony in the firelight.
it smells wonderful out tonight.