It’s the end of the day and I’m walking, tired but purposeful, to get home. The light is fading fast and I pull my coat tighter around me as defence against the oncoming wintery chill. And, as I come along the street, I catch the gentle, earthy scent of woodsmoke rising from our house. A deep breath. Time to relax now. Warmth and cosiness awaits. My pace slows and my heart quickens. I’m home now.
It’s this promise of home, of welcome, of the welcome end of the day that’s stayed with me since childhood when my dad would light the fire as the nights grew darker. The fire was what we gathered around, what we dried our hair in front of after a bath, what we curled up by with a good book. The fire was family.
Whenever I smell that warming, welcoming, woody fragrance as I walk along a street, I imagine some other little family gathered, safe, cosy, home.
And when now, as we light the fire of an evening, and I breathe in the first breath of woodsmoke, I know the day is done. It’s time to relax. I can sit back, let my shoulders drop, and let the cares of the day drift of like the smoke itself, as the memories of a thousand fires, of family, and of home fill my bones.