As synthetic and polluted this air is, it makes me remember. It’s poisonous and secondhand, but I remember kindness. My reflection disappears from view as the passenger window rolls down, and a limbic litany of poor air enters my lungs—the same smog I’d smell on the path home from school, latent cracks on the sidewalk anticipating their moment to burst and break against the sparse green that somehow persisted to grow between the lines, corduroy uniform slacks and sailor’s shirt somehow keeping me warm as I denied wearing the sweater meant to protect me in this microclimate, the cacophony of wind mixed in with the hourly church bell as we ran, ran, ran to the car after a single spray of water met our glasses lens.
(Little city boy. You find the worst to be wistful, your longing ruby-colored and dressing you in warmth so that you may ignore, just for a moment, that the worst is the worst for a reason. That faint bouquet of nonpoint burning sends you back in waves, hollowing you out as your nose brings it to your brain. The limbic system is connected to your olfactory cortex. Nostalgia is in the air. Olfactory transduction softens you. You hate to say you want more of the smoke: just to feel, not to recreate.)
About the author
Bella (they/them) is a small creative from the bay area. While being a competitive dancer, they also have taken a dip in the writing sphere. Much of their enjoyment revolves around psychological horror media, literary fiction, dark fantasy RPGs, and bubble tea.
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