Today my mind is filled with the smell of the burnt oak tree on cranberry road. The earth around the tree has regrown it's grass and the dirt no longer smells like melted metal and plastic. The air no longer smells like smoke, yet all my nose smells is the aroma of burnt flesh. Of blood and seat leather. The fire still burns my skin when I think about it. There's an empty hole in my heart that he left when he flew through the stars and back over the moon.