"Tweed" - April 2, 2022

Slipping my arms into the oversized sleeves with the leather patches on the elbows, I’m engulfed in a cloud of him, his woodsy pine smell from his shop. His beeswax hand cream. My stomach does loopety loops and I start to feel the rumble of my lunch threatening to come back up. Fresh cut peonies on the table, blushing almost as much as me, as I remember the last time I got to kiss my husband before he traipsed into the woods to fight the fire overtaking the county. Ashen clouds obscured the sun, an impenetrable haze thickening lize the air in a small southern church on Sunday. A giant barbecue has raged for 3 days, persistent and strong…