T rounded the corner and couldn’t help but smile. He was here - home. Well a few blocks yet from his actual home, but he was in the vicinity. The neighborhood really.
He didn’t immediately recognize anyone on the street, but the smells were right. There was the scent of warm bread that envelopes you every time you walk past Saber’s bakery. That was then over taken by the BBQ joint run by the Johnsons - it was a combination of wood smoke and roast fat that wafted after you, toying with your taste buds as much as your sense of smell. Then there were the onions.
Oh the onions. It was enough to make you cry they were so pungent. T did tear up as he passed the vegetable stall run by Nonna Nadir, who insisted on keeping fresh cut onions on display. She’d even offer samples of raw ones to passersby, so proud was she of them and their sweetness even if it made the street smell like a hotdog stand.
T moved faster, switching into a jog at the tire shop. It’s mixture of rubber and oil a reminder he was nearly there as the screech of pneumatic wrenches called after him. Just a block and a half to go - past the shoe store, the dive bar, the pawn shop, the newsstand. Each another flavor in the casserole T called home, before he had even gotten to the meat of his life there - his mother’s.
Today’s art courtesy of Moustafa Shaheen from Cairo, Egypt.