Burning grass and sausage.

[gallianoparfait]

I gaze into the kaleidoscope of my past life and I see the younger me standing in the middle of a field where my father is at his annual burning of grass and leaves and brush. The smell comes to my nostrils and I sense the ache of nostalgia. My father wears a sweater that reeks of kerosene. He holds a broom with which he snuffs an errant flame here and sets a new one there. I help a little but mostly watch. Someone calls out that dinner is ready. I go indoors. My mother smells the smoke in my own clothing. I change upstairs, throwing a smoked shirt on the floor. The aroma of Italian sausage roasted with potatoes and wild mushrooms rises from the oven downstairs. It startles and beckons. I wash my hands for supper.

(Old diary entry, re-edited.)