California Bay Laurel

Smell evokes the strongest
memories — bypassing thymus,

racing right to the olfactory
bulb, like some nutso driver in

stop-and-go, passing everyone
on the road’s shoulder.

Today I am in the fog of
coastal redwoods, 2500

miles away from Georgia’s
August oppression — heat

and humidity so bad you
can see fungi grow — sometimes,

even on yourself. So yesterday,
the Tuesday after the funeral

of my wife’s oldest sister, we’re
hiking in the redwoods and I

am suddenly triggered by a
branch laced with emerald knife blade-leaves,

and instead of the Russian River
Valley, I’m fifteen, standing on

Pacific Coast Hwy One at
Cayucos, thumb out, having just

picked a few bay laurel leaves to
place under my backpack straps — leaves

pushing out the scent of good health —
pungent, peppery, part thyme, part

oregano, somehow slowing my
heart rate — deepening inhalations