4 November 2013
It’s freezing this morning. My fingernails are blue. I’m sitting next to the heater, typing away, filling myself with tea to try to stay warm, but it’s definitely a wintry afternoon. I feel the need to keep succinct, to keep moving.
Spring smells fresh, like clean laundry and opened windows. New wind, the earth, dew. Spring smells like earth dug up and renewed, like blue skies and birthday cake. Spring smells like a new year, like next chances, like rebirth.
Summer smells like salt, like coconuts, like sweat drying. Barbecues, gunpowder, fireworks. Summer smells like afternoon naps and humid haziness. Palm trees, sweet evenings. Rolled-down car windows, speed and slowness.
Autumn smells like smoke, like crisp fires and baking. Cinnamon, cloves, bread, apple. The sweet smokiness of fogged up nights when the last heat is rising up and the first cold descends. Bonfires, burning leaves, death. Fruit overripe and harvested. Vegetables roasting, soup being stirred.
Winter smells like cinnamon and silence. Oranges, pine needles. Meat roasting, a myriad of company and aloneness. Cold, frozen, muted. Cider and pretzels, hot dogs, fried cheeses outside under a snow-laden sky. Dampness, deepness, a gentle closing up.
The Season’s Campaign