The Scent of Smoke

Written by Elina C.

Photograph by Elina C.

My grandparents' house always smells like smoke. Not the heavy kind, burnt and black, that clings to clothes. Not the sharp kind that makes your eyes burn, your nostrils flare. It's the kind that comes from the kitchen, where oil sizzles and garlic browns in a wok, where my grandmother waves away the steam with a handmade coaster, never in a hurry. It's the kind that comes from right outside, where firecrackers snap against the cracked and weathered concrete floor. The kind that comes from sparklers that pop on sticks in our hands, red paper and ashes fluttering into the night sky like torn petals. In front of the altar, incense sticks bob in our praying hands before being placed in a bowl to stand, crowded in a pile of ash. Their tips glow as thin threads of grey rise to the ceiling, the smoke drifting up to our ancestors. My grandfather sits behind me and my siblings, sipping tea and watching, nodding, like he knows they are watching too.