The gunpowder smoke
Odd, says Samipii. It smells the new year but it isn't cold at all.
The dark empty cabins hang quietly in the heights. The smoke and the fragrance curl in the wind, get sweeped down from the hill.
Here it is different, I say. You're welcome to come next year and picnic with us by the sea in the august. It's even warmer then.
We could swim. We could drink vinho verde. We could lie and watch the artificial stars to climb the dusk and see them explode when reaching the dark ceiling invisible to us. We could float and watch and curl and giggle, we could explode like the stars, we could find the coalburned wrappers of the fire flowers, we could catch one of them falling down, hot and gunpowder-smelling.
We could see the smoke trails in the lights of the next stars.
We are partly stars ourselves, part sun and part water, but partly stars as well. One day he told me iron comes to be when stars are borning and dying. So we are not only loaned sun and cycling water, but partly stars as well, I said.
Correct, he said.
Watching the artificial stars and the smoke trails and wondering how differently people live and how different smells mean different things to different people and feeling part of this all, the time kept its pace.