Baltimore

Brackish water at the end of a street, colder and greener than the sea. Bricks that hold heat and then let it go all at once in the evening. A pot going on the stove with bay leaf, celery seed, mustard seed and black pepper in it, and the steam taking over the whole kitchen until the windows fog. Rain on a stoop. A little tobacco on the air from a neighbor. It is not a pretty smell. It is a real one, and it is the reason I know what it feels like to come back to somewhere.