I was on a run in the late afternoon. The rain had passed, but the sidewalks showed where its presence had been. I was careful, conscious of how the bottoms of my shoes would do against the icy pavement. It was my first experience jogging in true winter temperatures. My focus was taken away. It was led to the fragrance much like the one of my grandmother's cabin that sits on Mt. Graham, the highest peak of the Pinaleño Mountains in southeastern Arizona. I followed the scent, allowing my mind to take the nostalgic course. My mind fled backwards into a youth of pinecones and tricycles and dirty cheeks as I, now much older and somewhat tainted in comparison, jogged forward into an unknown second, every second. It wasn't so bad being back there, tucked into a warm nest of family, card games, sugar that didn't make me sick, and my very own bakery that specialized in Mud Pies. The ice under my feet began to feel dangerous again. I continued on, running further and further away from my bakery—in time and in character. I continued forward, growing older.
