When a car comes down the road we all look up. It’s like the looks we used to get from the locals pulling into that small French town. Morning clouds, afternoon sun. Saturdays sleeping in. Just the sound of the fan and the dog by the bed smacking her lips, no plans. A fresh bag of coffee and the browning lawn. The birds thinning out. Filing the dead skin off my cuticles. A good book, maybe a walk. The vegetable garden coming along, same with the wildflowers out back. I messaged Eberhard because this is the time of year we’d normally go climbing in the Alps, when the meteor showers come on and they close the shops for that Catholic holiday Maria Himmelfahrt. Buying gray mustard in tubes like toothpaste called sempf. Sausages and schnapps, Roman numerals scratched in stone above the entryways, crude-looking avalanche structures down in the valley. Eberhard kissing his fingers then touching his friend’s grave, that small Catholic church in that small Austrian town.

The cello stands in the corner now like Boo Radley, looming. The entryway to our house smells like feet, all the shoes at odd angles. That fine summer rain blurring the trees, it brings on a nice smell. Today I’ll cook indoors, chili weather. It fills the house with fragrance and memories, the hope for many more.

Categories: prose, travel, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, nostalgia, William Pearse writer