The Smell of Incense(Abigail) partner. The strong smell of sandalwood and roses dampened his sense of smell, sending waves of drowsiness into his slightly muddled mind. He lay there, under the colorful shawls and blankets, taking in the deep scent of the early morning. They should rise soon, they had much to do. His partner had to set up tents; he had to prepare his area for storytelling. He could hear people shouting, a bright mesh of French, German, Chinese, Arabic, Spanish, Italian, English and Romanian. He could hear Dmitri singing and the steady music of harps and drums and flutes. Maia, too young to really perform, would be banging on her tambourine as she and her mother prepared breakfast. He could imagine Bala, the large elderly woman in charge of the caravan, wearing her purple patchwork dress, surrounded by the children and smoking a pipe of sweet smelling herbs. The children would be begging for a story, for he was not up and amongst the others. Sunlight could be seen filtering through and he knew it was time to rise, or else the twins from Belgium, Antonio and Arthur, would burst in, yelling eagerly about the new trick they could do, and telling them to get their lazy butts out and help the rest of the grown-ups. Even though the twins were 18, they clearly still thought of themselves as young children. With a sigh, he pulled himself out of bed and pushed his friend over, the older teen snorting again but waking up. There were so many of them and so little caravans, so everyone shared. Not that anyone minded, for this was their family. They took in outcasts, orphans, people who couldn’t make a living in their home countries. But they all loved each other. And as he began to get dressed, he stopped and gazed out the window, letting the smell of incense lull him into a comfortable daze.

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