on the scent of saturdays

it smells like saturday. a saturday full of different plans, full of breezes and illusions, of uncertainty and melancholy, of peace and chaos. it smells like a saturday that seems to shout that the year is about to end and that reminds you that your annual plans have not been fulfilled. a saturday that reminds you of the moons of august and the rain of april, a saturday of the light of november.

it smells like saturday, and every saturday smells like something. november saturdays smell of cold, of mountains, of wind and a bit of sweetness. it smells like a village, a park and the conversation of old men chatting about their hard life in the war while their wives buy bread for the family meal with their grandchildren. it smells of awakening, of scorpio and a little of my coconut scent.

it smells of saturday and of those eternal hugs from the person you give your life for, of that illusion and surprise when you see a butterfly, of those salty tears that soak the pillow; of that old november when you saw the snow for the first time. you caressed it and played with it without knowing that it would take a whole year to happen again and a whole year to be able to smell it again.

it smells like saturday. a saturday in november. to the air freshener in the kitchen. the dirty mosquito net in the bedroom. to the ledge where you lean out and catch the fragrance. to that antique rocking chair, you know the one i mean, right? it smells of late autumn and premature christmas lights, of a cosy village and that novel you'd reread. it smells like saturday.