Sometimes, I can still smell her—as though my very skin were steeped in the incense of her, awaiting only the occasional trigger to be released. Sunshine, falling on grass. Damp earth. Glistening sweat along the backbone. The must of old books. Her shampoo. Other things.
Usually, I just shrug and move on, trying to ignore it. But sometimes, in the quiet still of the night, I immerse myself and remember—what it felt like to wake up smelling her, how joyous that scent after even a short separation, the nuances it took with her moods. I remember all our goodness. And then I sleep, comforted.