Balsam fir

I stood in front of the grocery store, a few days ago, my hand on the shopping cart, but not moving. I just absorbed the rich aroma of the wreaths suspended from triangular frames.

Smells trigger memories. Memories of visiting my grandmother’s kitchen, in a small town in Quebec, as she cooked lunch on her wood-burning kitchen stove. Memories of throwing hay bales on the back of the International stake-body truck on a hot summer day. Memories of sliding head-first through slick mud into a frog pond.

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