Skunk

I came in from walking the dog tonight. I didn’t see the skunk, but he was out there in the darkness.

It took me back to summers in Connecticut. On warm nights you could always smell a skunk somewhere in the neighborhood. The smell drifted in with the crickets and the fireflies. We saw them too — small, slow animals drifting through the grass, unhurried and uncaring. Their odor was sharp and tangy, not exactly pleasant, but familiar, stitched into the fabric of summer. It was as steady as the hum of insects and the glow of porch lights, one of those small details that told you the season was alive and moving all around you.

Here in Huntersville, it’s different. My neighborhood touches a big farm. There are woods too. You’d think there would be plenty of skunks. But this is the first time all year I’ve smelled one.

I don’t know why. Maybe there are fewer skunks here. Maybe they keep to other places. But the nights feel empty without them. Even the sharper smells of summer bring with them a kind of rough comfort.