A small trickle of sweat starts to pool in the palm of his hand as he grasps the end of the forest green extension cord. Holding his breath as if he were free diving into the depths of the sea, every muscle in his jaw clenched tightly like a tiger’s around its prized prey kill. Wiping the palm of his right hand on the side of his work overalls, he inhales, sucking the scent of pine and fire trees in through the sliver of space between his front teeth, and he steps lightly on the packed snow. He flips up the metal flap and plugs the three pronged cord into the outlet to the left of the porch, steps back, feeling the frost on the tips of his nose, both from the cold and the candy peppermint dissolving in his mouth. Crunch - the santas start dancing and singing their holiday song, swaying their hips like hula girls; the reindeer gallop across the roof, and…
Chunks of earth let go of their grasp as he lifts his right steel-toed boot towards the first rung of the ladder. It creaks underneath his weight like the moans of an older man getting up off the floor, but it stands, resolute and unmoving, like a soldier at boot camp in front of his TO. His feet shuffle slightly on each step, always the right foot first because of the nagging twinge in his left hip. His head now buried in the leaves of the orchard, smelling bright, new, and floral as the blossoms fall like small snowflakes in the wind. Riding the wind like a cowboy wrestling a bull, in wafts a whiff of Mrs. P’s bonfire as she is buckleing down for the evening. Peter, feeling a twinkle of hope tickle his stomach, turns his caramel colored eyes towards the first fruit - a round, firm, and sure to be sweet and crisp apple. Peter pauses in wonder, as everyone does when at peace with nature, feeling his large, rough and heavily tanned hands grip the even rougher slats of the ladder, feeling the last salute of the sun pull its warmth…
Padding softly through the overgrown kiwi, stretching out their trailing vines, searching for the sunlight, I inhale deeply the sweet mixed aromas of peonies, geraniums, and sweet basil. Letting the sun warm the back of my neck, I crease at my hips and fold over to reach for my toes like those vines reaching for the sun. Feeling a familiar pulling sensation at the back of my knees where my hamstrings both exhale, relax, and, at the same time, beg for reprieve. I reach down below the green leaves and pick up a small, light-colored sachet-like fruit. Peeling back the pale orange creamsicle petals to find the little yellowish-orange globe fruit sitting in the middle of the pod, I pop it in between my teeth and pull slightly so the fruit releases its hold on its protective cover and I use my teeth to squash the orb. The tiny, unassuming orb releases its juices, flooding my mouth with a sour yet sweet-like-a-carrot, tomato, and passionfruit mixed together. Unassuming and perplexing all at once. I scrape my fingers lightly across the surface of the dirt to find more hidden orbs, aware of the dirt being trapped beneath my fingernails. I inhale again, drop my bare knee into the soil…
“Worn whisky brown leather band, crinkled around the clasp. The leather loops that used to hold the end in place were left long ago in a parking garage or out in the highland fields. I fiddle with the clasp, the tarnished metal tooth, flapping wildly like a child thrown into too deep of water and not knowing how to control their arms and legs to swim. Still smells like his cologne and tobacco - from smoking cigarettes without the filter. His clear blue watery eyes swarm my mind and I fight back the tears stinging the corner of my eyes. The woman in the periwinkle ruffled blouse and charcoal colored A-line skirt calls my name and my stomach lurches like at the end of a roller coaster ride, a little too hard. My hands tremble as I run my fingers through my curls, getting stuck halfway back in the stubborn knot that my comb can never seem to find. Breathing in the sickly sweet peony perfume as I pass her, I feel my stomach lurch again, barrel rolling this time.
Cold steel grey zippers and a handle thrown off its hinges much like its owner, humbled. Worn, not by the grace of time and travel, but by the man who holds it dear like his childhood bear with only one eye and its once tidy bow, now smelling of spilled coffee. A safeguard, whose home once was between the young boy’s bruised beating heart and hardened words now sat tucked away beside empty aluminum cans, broken glass bottles, and a box of distant memories.
The dull bell-like clangs ring out from the small garage. I sit, my legs pumping up and down like the pistons in the engine, watching wrenches disappear along with the greasy hands smeared in black gunk underneath the chassis. I smack my gum loudly, grinding my teeth against the fading bubblegum flavor, now growing bitter and dull by the minute. The ratcheting wrench loosening the body panel, exposing the heart of the beast beneath its ribs. She’s been whining and sagging a little around her wheelbase, finally about to give up on me, but my heart races like someone in the waiting room while their loved one is in surgery.
There are cracker crumbs tucked away in every nook of the backseat - they escaped being eaten by me when I was still in elementary school. A slight crinkle in the front bumper from the first time I cut the corner of a parking garage too close. This car feels like home - it smelled of my mom’s cinnamon and apple pies on the way to the bake sales. Every once in a while, I sit on the passenger seat and wait - because a little puff of my grandma’s perfume pops up - a little cloud of tears and joy
Threading the needle, his palms find hope in breaking new ground. His muscular shoulders cry out against the darkness that lilts about, beating the very center of his eardrums. Soul afire and a weightless heart, he flows against the grain, much like a surfer racing a wave. Except, he is no surfer riding fear until it quits…
The slight tickle just above my lip as the deep purple buds brush against me with the wind flexing them this way and that. A soft giggle rising up my spinal column escapes like a deer springing and clearing a high fence. My heart beats wildly and my eyes grow wide as my nose fills with the light, floral scent of lavender. Bathing in the sunlight, arms outstretched between the rows of light purple, legs folded into a butterfly with each knee pointing to the sides and my toes touching. I breathe in and my back melts into the ground. I twist the ring that’s on my right ring finger, squinting up at the sun, and I lick my lips, tasting the salt that has dried there from my sweat. Listening to the dry crackle of the plants brushing up against one another in the wind, it reminds me of the bouquets curiously hung upside down in our kitchen to dry with one small sprig…
A tuft of smoke races towards the ceiling as the tiny tarnished silver bell-like extinguisher releases it, like a spider released from under a glass cup. My eyes itchy and dry, feel as though they have blistered watching out the window. A branch across the way twitches and every muscle in my body stiffens as I wait for the evergreen to stir again. The branches billow and bristle as a huge dark brown bull moose bulldozes his antlers through the thick underbrush, much like a linebacker through a weak defense. My palms like the edge of a cliff, rough and textured like teflon, now smooth with sweat. I lean my whole upper body forward, my eyes now bulging as though they are being pushed out of their sockets, and I stare, smelling the leftover cinnamon and spice from my now icy cold chai tea bag, as though smelling the Christmas cookies the day after Christmas. He plods on, his proud antlers with a small branch grasping on as tightly as possible…
I inhale, stepping one mud-covered boot through the screen door into the kitchen and my other boot hangs in midair, dropping dried mud like a mountaintop breaking off into the rushing waves below. Smells like the garden, a vegetal, earthy, flowery smell drifting out, curling the little hairs in my nose and settling there like a cat settling into a warm lap. The grating of stone against stone as the green leaves become a thick paste of Nonna’s olive oil, pressed in wicker-lick sheets by hand, and pine nuts. I watch as she grates parmesan down to the rind and pecorino, dancing onto the cutting board like the first snow. My heart, thumping fast, rings like the old rusted bell hung out on the porch, heavy on the overtones, but a little duller than usual. I feel saliva start to pool in the sides of my mouth and I realize my mouth is still open. She’s…
The crickets have concluded their last orchestral serenade, though the cicadas still echo across the canyon, which is layered with blushing pink, dark granite, pale sandstone. Like a guiro ratcheting up, the cicadas call out, grating my nerves. I slip my toes, pale and cold from poking out of my thermal cloud of a sleeping bag, into a warm pair of slightly scratchy wool socks. I lean back on my hands and peer just outside my vibrantly orange tent zipper and the sun is just peeking above the canyon’s horizon, like a child playing peekaboo with her grandma. The wind jostles my tent, the unzipped sides billowing like a dog’s cheeks when hanging outside a car window. The cold creeps in, tucks itself and nestles itself against my collarbone and down my spine, sending a shake from my shoulders to my hips. I inhale the fresh pine trees, still a dark green, a stark contrast against the bare canyon. The wind pauses and it’s as if Mother Nature is holding her breath, even the cicadas stop chirping. A lone hawk circles, regally riding the currents of the wind, its tail as though it has been dipped in amber red dust.