It’s the smell of home. It’s here. I don’t know if it is the winter day that hoovers over head and brings in heavy air, but “it” is here, finally. I remember it at my parent’s house, that smell from outside that mixed with inside and all of our stuff and all of our lives and whiffs of it made it “home” forever.
This house, this old house, causes me despair sometimes. It always needs something – a roof, a floor, a can of paint, always something. Sometimes I think of leaving it for something new, but, then, today happens and I am caught in its spell again. The spell that only time can create and the place that only this place can be. I know I am a sentimental sap and sometimes I do not like that about myself but most times I welcome this part of my nature, this part that makes me the keeper of memories.
This cold day will fall into a colder night that might freeze the oranges on my trees. It will become a night that allows me to think of things that are little, to visit the places the sunshine blinds me from, those places that only appear in the flames of the fireplace when the wind wails and the dampness seeps in, those places in winter that somehow make us reflective and a bit melancholy as idle thoughts drift to yesterdays. I suppose it is as it should be, this tilt of the planet that keeps us inside and makes us slow down a bit to remember and reflect, to break away.
The tea kettle is nearly empty from the day, the fire needs tending and this old house smells like home.