Apple Pie Memories
Nostalgia’s sweet smells lessen the weight of this heavy burden.
The smell of freshly baked apple pie hits me hard, its mix of sweet and tart apples melting into the sharpness of the cinnamon. It’s not just a smell; it’s a tidal wave of memories. The buttery crust, golden and flaky, whispers promises of warmth and comfort—promises of safety and hope. The sweet smell of caramelized sugar reminds me of the stolen kisses behind the football bleachers, the cotton candy of countless county fairs, and the warmth of the fire waiting at home. It’s a welcoming aroma — the smell of home — cutting through the sad boredom of everyday life with a sharp edge of nostalgia and longing, making me ache for a time when life was simpler. When happiness sat cooling on the windowsill.
Snapping my mind away from the beckoning smells wafting through the kitchen, I still have time to wonder, “Is there time for a slice?” as I lift the rug to my shoulder. But there’s no more time for nostalgia or leisurely snacks. I have a job, and it’s time to get back to work.
My back aches under the weight of my burden, but I persevere. This is hard work — proper work — just like back on the farm. Momma made dinner, and me and the boys did the chores. It’s not the simple life of an accountant I’m used to, where my brain does the heavy lifting, and my body…
