A Scent to Call Your Own

When your memory fades, scent is the last to go, if at all. But with him, scent was the first to go…

I know he smells of “cigarette and cologne” but I can no longer remember the exact combination that made the scent unique to him. They’re vague words that I use singularly and combined; they create generic scents but I can’t remember the version that is his. I can no longer pull it up as I pull up a file in my memory like when I think of dove soap, imagine the smell and remember the time I buried my nose in his neck and inhaled that intoxicating I-have-just-showered-and-put-on-a-freshly-laundered-shirt smell. OR when my best friend tells me her scent is Ralph Lauren Romance, and I laugh because I swear I can smell him (“Junior and Jolie’s dad”) right there and then. Just as real as the first time I pulled the bottle off the dresser, sprayed it mid air and he watched me dance under the falling mist.

If my subconscious could speak, it’s probably telling me, “I’m keeping the ones I ┬álike, doing away with the ones that break, burn, and end.” and I would probably reply, “Patience, I think we’re almost there.”

 

 

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