Memory Of Jasmine

I love to light incense.
The more aromatic it is, the better.
I watch it twist and curl into the air, spreading trails in an alphabet only known to the gods and the mad fools who follow them.
Today, I light a stick of jasmine, and I can remember when our fence was covered with vines and white star blossoms.
The red tip glows brightly, consuming the incense slowly, dropping ash into the groove of the wooden holder.
And then, the tip goes dark.
The smoke trails vanish, and I’m left with the memory and scent of tiny white flowers.