A Breath of Cinnamon

A sweet, woody scent drew me up onto the dining room credenza, where a forgotten wooden cinnamon stick rested beside an empty white porcelain teacup. I cradled the curled bark in both arms, feeling the rough ridges along its dried spiral. Steadying my feet on the polished mahogany, I gently tilted the fragrant wand until it spanned the wide opening of the teacup like a miniature bridge. Through its hollow center, a breath of warm air drifted up, carrying the quiet memory of a sunlit forest into the still afternoon.