I arrived home from wine class this evening, stepped out of the car, and stopped. That smell. A smell I would know anywhere. A smell that is probably woven into my DNA by now. Wood smoke. I only catch a whiff of it from time to time, but someone within a block or so has a woodstove. (I grew up in a house that has two.) Wafts of wood smoke in the air on a cold, clear night, with stars (as many as you can see in the city, anyway).

Sometimes there are good reasons to stand there in your driveway at 10pm with your head tilted back and your eyes slowly closing.

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