In the Pines

Summer in Washington has a distinct scent: fresh fruit festering in stands, the aroma of warmed pine needles that smells like a sweeter sepia-toned Christmas: dusty cement after the first summer rain is my favorite smell-- earthy and sweaty tones, fresh cut grass tickles my nose and skin with it's distinctly green and wet smell: the smell of blue-raspberry slushies and gasoline, coconut sunscreen and sweet summer sweat-- not the anxious garlicky kind but the sticky syrupy sweat that smells like maple leaves and lake water: the smell of first kisses, passionate and fast summer loves, mystery and cheap cologne, in between breaths and caresses, clean laundry and shaving cream, Old Spice: like my dad's car stale leather and lingering tobacco. Slowly, the smell of pine turns to the smell of rotting leaves, milky sunflowers, and moth-ball soaked wool sweater, nutmeg and cheap pumpkin spice perfume: smells like goodbyes like tears and heartbreak and mom's homemade cinnamon rolls: like the first day of school-- nerves and Clorox wipes, stenches of all of the students rushing through the hall, like the salmon rotting in the streams rank like whatever they prep in the cafeteria. The first snow comes and it smells like peppermint and my great-grandmas lavender bar soap, pine-scented candles and the plastic of the fake tree, turkey and glazed ham, onion, garlic, the aromas of a feast: it smells like being full and then new beginnings and the sulfery toxic smell of fireworks. Before long the sweet sepia-toned pine needles come back around the smell of the first summer rain, another new beginning: a new love, new laundry soap and cheap cologne, a new leathery car smell and a different brand of sunscreen. It lulls into the smell of fresh tears, of rotten leaves, and a new school year.