SWEET SMOKE BY JULIANA GUARRACINO

The tiny shop shivers in the silver shadows of stores and residence buildings, one of many metal boxes situated on a tight corner or narrow pathway. Patchouli, white sage, lavender. The thin sticks sizzle in silence and kiss the air sweetly before turning earthy. A ceramic plate catches their fragrant embers as the gentle smoke sneaks up on nearby pedestrians now restricted to single-file on the sidewalk. Most continue unphased, glazed eyes and clear direction. The smoke briefly mingles with the city musk until perfume, gasoline and winter consume it. Still, it meets me, desensitized by the buzz of taxis and footsteps, with an embrace. I slow my pace, lingering long enough to let the smoke settle on my skin. I remember. Mother. Amethyst room, soft music, warm hands and a singing bowl. Buy and burn or buy and sell. A quiet store with fairy statues and quartz displays. I smile unconsciously. A customer draws the attention of the shop owner and selects three packages. Sandalwood, jasmine, and frankincense. I imagine asking why those. I imagine myself buying the same ones. The taxis lurk sidewalks, police evade traffic and the ornate packages sit neatly on their shelf. The ash falls into a perfect line on the plate, leftovers of a marketing expense, a parallel timeline, a shadow memory. The floral clouds simmer and dissipate. I take a final glance at the array of cardboard sheaths, the vibrant colors, the eccentric fonts, the familiar names, the unfamiliar names and continue on my way.