The Candle in Brownstone

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, over summer vacation, I stayed up every night reading The Lord of the Rings for the first time. Firm believer in finding the right thing at the right time. In the years since, I’ve re-read LotR many times, but nothing is as magical as that first time. I listened to TUSK, sucked on Pink Lemonade Jolly Ranchers, and read by candle light until the first murmurings of dawn crept around drapes. When I could hear my mom stirring, I turned in (and usually slept until she got home from work). Couldn’t do this now if I tried. Now, I’m the early riser, walked our Standard Poodle around 6am every morning. BUT, when I got a whiff of BROWNSTONE, I was immediately 10 years old again. Reading Tolkien, and thinking of the quiet magic therein.

My attic library now smells of BROWNSTONE. The leather, clove, citrus, patchouli blend is perfect and I imagine myself away from the sweltering heat in Oxford, or The Green Dragon. My books are scattered all around, and I yearn for that unfettered time.