She rolled past the faded welcome sign and the announcement of the population, dwindling over decades. The air was an olfactory cacophony, accompanied by the faint harmony of her youth: pig barns, thawing turkey waste, a decomposing or especially angry skunk, burning branches and mud.
Her husband often argued that dirt has no odor; a rural Midwesterner certainly knows better. It is equally the scents of birth, growth, and life combined with decay and death and a warmth that comes from almost constant wetness. It is dankness markedly unlike the way city dwellers casually use that word to refer to their weed. It is not the fresh glass clippings and cherry blossoms and hot pavement of the suburbs. Country air is oddly reassuring and wildly isolating, a crescendo and diminuendo with the rise and fall of daylight, of darkness. Tonight, this symphony screamed "alone.."
Created: Apr 28, 2017sonsalla Document Media