An ode to Alaska odors
A sprig from a creosote bush infuses the steam in our shower stall with notes of the western Grand Canyon: tarry, resinous, bitter but rich. I carried it carefully wrapped in my luggage the last time I returned to the sub-Arctic from the high-desert Southwest, my former home. More sudden than fossil or feather or driftwood burl on a desk, the sprig’s scent conjures a dear place and time, jump-starting memory like satiny wildflowers chanced upon between pages of a book.
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