Poetry, Life, Autumn
Crabapples Past their Prime
The scent of a memory
Walking down a country road in Oregon, I smelt it, the tang of my youth.
Crowded onto a plywood platform fifteen feet up in the canopy, we girls had pelted the boys, who’d chased us, with mushy fruit from the crabapple tree.
Among our first attempts at flirtation, probably, we’d giggled and hidden ourselves behind the fading leaves.
I could still smell the vinegar and rancid sugar clinging to my fingers later, when I went to bed that night, watching through the window as an autumn sky began to die into winter near Lake Eerie.
Who knew that smells could linger like that in the hallways of your mind? Or that you might find yourself wandering down an Oregon road sometime and recognize the scent of crabapples past their prime?
Erika Burkhalter is a yogi, neurophilosopher, cat-mom, photographer, and lover of travel and nature, spreading her love and amazement for Mother Earth’s glories, one photo, poem or story at a time. (MS Neuropsychology, MA Yoga Studies).
I hope you enjoyed my photo, poem and musings.
You might also enjoy:
Photos and story ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.
