Clouds of wisteria and jasmine clung to the small cottage, like a mountain peak cloaked in fog. Along horizontal parallel beams the climbers crawled—the low pitch of the roof also luring them higher—bringing with them the scent of Spring and bees eager to harvest the fresh pollen on offer. Delicately, she placed the incense holder on the table; there was a barely audible dink as the clay base reached the table top. It was of simple design; a clay circle, with a small opening in the centre, to which the incense stick would be stuffed. Using her left hand, she ran her fingertips up the vertical incense stick until she reached its length. The miniscule bumps and contours confirmed its handmade, hand-rolled provenience. Her right hand held an open flame—a piece of paper alight—and she gently brought this to the end of the incense. A huuft signaled the fire had done its job, and soon wafts of sandalwood wound their way towards the ceiling, drifting and dancing on the breeze allowed by the many open windows of the house.
Her sight might have corroded, but her sense of smell had not. She picked up scents of the sandalwood, along with botanicals the artisan had included in its creation; notably mixed with the bouquet of the resident climbers outside. She strained her memory, trying to recall it as she had seen as a child; surely these soft scents were riding the waves of wisps emanating from the incense stick—or at least as she recalled it.
How many—she would never know for certain—of her memories had become mis-remembers, reliable lies, unable to be validated by vision of the now? The memory of the scent would endure longer than the event, though forever through the warped lens of memory. Surely this was true of all of us, she thought; removed from time and place, we still yet claim knowledge based on poorly transcribed notes jotted on worn parchment of the mind.
She sat on a cushion next to a large window. Tilting her head to experience the breeze on her cheeks, a subtle symbol of the Spring blooming beyond the borders of the room. All she knew was right now—not reliant on faded falsities—was she could smell the wonderful aroma of sandalwood, sublimating with the scent of wisteria from outside the ajar window. With a ffift, the incense stick burned out, extinguished.
