As a child there were few things that brought me comfort
Winters were too cold, my mother yelled too loud, the poor old cat loathed
Me with all the contempt in his furry little heart
But there was one thing that brought me peace,
One thing that could ease my shivering,
That warm sting, pleasant in its own masochistic way
The scent of smothered ash, soaked deep into most linens and fabrics
I loved the smell of smoke
If I was hurt, or hungry, or bored, I would seek my mother and climb into her lap
And breathe deep that soothingly sweet stink
Perhaps it was because only when she sat on the roof, ember-laden
Paper balanced delicately between her lips
That we were mother and child
