Winter Fire

On a winter evening, I was sipping tea on my veranda when dusk slowly settled as the sun disappeared.

Just then, a familiar but forgotten fragrance began to weave itself into the winter air. It lit my heart in all the hues of orange. It lit my soul with happiness, with a feeling of how beautiful this life is.

I let the fragrance lead me to the place from where it seemed to rise. There, my mother had lit a fire, its golden flames flickering against the winter evening. There was something so beautiful about the way those little flames danced against the darkness. I found myself drawn to it like a moth to a flame, drawn towards its warmth.

As I drew closer, the warmth brushed against my skin, painting me in shades of gold. Somewhere in that warmth, I found myself falling in love with myself all over again.

The crackling of burning wood had a certain sacredness to it, almost like a chant that brought me closer to myself and to God.

In the vast coolness of winter, it became a little universe of warmth, where strangers and loved ones gathered alike. Beneath its golden glow, stories unfolded, hearts opened, and little pieces of life were shared.

I often wish I could capture this fragrance in a little bottle, so I wouldn't have to wait an entire year to experience it again.

Perhaps it's the waiting that makes it so precious, the longing that makes its arrival feel like a little celebration.