If it hadn't been for that slight movement out of the corner of my eye, I would never have given that old, vacant house another look. It was obvious no one lived there. The glass was gone from the windows. Even the window frames were folding upon themselves. It was if the entire house had sighed and fell into a sad shrug. But, I swear I saw a fine, whispery white veil flutter in the top empty window.
The dented door knob felt warm to my hand. My fingers laid into the dents perfectly and I let my hand rest there longer than necessary. The dents felt smooth and comfortable, almost like the perfect handshake.
Standing at the door, felt less than familiar. As if trying to figure out why I was standing in front of a door of a home no one lived in, there was a little puff of a breeze sliding down the length of my arms. This porch shouldn't have felt so inviting however, my feet felt light standing on the brittle boards. I even rocked back a bit to center myself and began to feel like I hadn't hiked one minute, much less for over 2 hours.
The smell of a new book is like the promise of a new adventure waiting to be traveled.
The smell of cigarette smoke is like the chard remains of dirty, brown flesh that used to be moist.
The aroma of fresh sheets is like the beginning of a night journey into the comforting arms of a loved one.
The dreaded smell of a port-a--pot is like a necessary, pungent evil that's tolerated for beginning a race.
The smell of wet newspapers is like gossip that was interesting at first but, has become just another tired story.