The old lady on the corner died and something must have blossomed for her in 1958 because that’s the year of everything at her estate sale. Travel magazines, place mats, jewelry, luggage. Someone wealthy bought up her aging home in my neighborhood and took it all apart. Then built a frame. Then today built walls. Plywood and sawdust. I smell only plywood and sawdust over citrus blossom and honey trees. Plywood and sawdust. The most delicious smell revealing every day of my childhood when my dad, the carpenter, would rip boards, jig edges and sand finishes. I grew up inside the smell of naked wood. I am inside it again.