Smoke

Smoke

The smell of a campfire woke me at 3 AM. A strong smell of smoke wafted through the open window. The hot breeze did little to cool off our bedroom. The ceiling fan only served to move the heat about.

“Do you smell smoke?” I nudged my husband.

He grumbled and rolled over.

“I can’t sleep. It’s hot and smoky in here. Are Jack and Heather burning in their fire pit again?” I asked. I hoped not. There’s a wildfire warning.

“Marie, go to sleep. It’s hot, I’m tired. It’s probably smoke from the fires in California.” Jim rolled over, put his arm around me.

I pushed him away. “You’re too hot and sweaty. Stop.”

Big sigh as he rolled over, Jim was asleep instantly.

I laid beside him, tried to go back to dreamland, closed my eyes. But the smell of smoke was so pervasive, it wouldn’t let me relax. I kept thinking it was right outside our house. I can’t sleep. It’s hopeless.

When I open my eyes, I see smoke. It fills the bedroom. It swirls around, driven by the ceiling fan. I watch it, mesmerized by the pale luminous quality of it. It forms shapes, then they disappear only to reform.

“This is so cool…” I whisper, afraid to wake Jim, afraid to disturb the smoke spirit.

Smoke forms a finger. The finger comes toward me, it surrounds me. I feel myself gently lifted from the bed. As I float in the smoke, I can see Jim below. I move slowly around the room. Then, just as gently, I am lowered to the bed. The finger of smoke tenderly touches my face, my hair, then leaves by the window.

The room clears. The smell of the campfire is replaced by cool air. I sleep.

W/C 299