12,821 Days Alive
1 Book Read
It’s the third night of the full moon and all I want to do is go sleep outside for some reason. Like when I was younger.
Once, in a town called Yorkville, we had a house with a tire swing and three fruit trees growing in our back yard. There was a fire pit, too, and on good, clear nights, we’d build a fire and sit around it. I’d stare up at the stars and the sliver of moonlight in the crescent above, watching the embers dance like fireflies before fading away into the darkness.
The smell of woodsmoke is a comfort to me. A reminder of happier memories even amid the troubled times. Burnt marshmallows and children trying to write their names in the air with the smoldering edge of a stick. I remember stories being told around the fire, with friends and family in rapt attendance as Uncle Dale spun a yarn of something spooky.
Maybe that’s why I want a home with a fireplace so badly. To harken back to happier times if only through scent-memory. I’ve so many, many memories around fire pits and fireplaces.
Sorry for the metaphoric wool gathering. I’m feeling homesick for a place that doesn’t exist again.
With as tired as I am, I will likely go to bed here shortly.
That’s all for today, y’all. Take your meds, folks.