#21. This Is Memory

Smells are a kind of memory
of precious moments lost in time.
The smell of pot roast in the oven reminds her
of Sunday afternoons at Golden Lake,
her mother mashing potatoes in the red kitchen.
Old Spice cologne smells like riding
in the front seat of her grandpa's Oldsmobile, 
squashed in-between him and her NaNa,
sawdust reminds her of her carpenter father 
who built houses back in the fifties.
Somewhere, the quiet is too loud,
and it smells like loneliness,
the same loneliness inside her
trapped here in this deadly pandemic.
She longs to smell the cozy fire crackling
in the living room grate when she was ten,
where White Shoulders perfume always reminds her 
of her mother's closet, of sitting on her bed, 
watching her select just the right earrings
for an evening out with her handsome father. 
She felt safe and loved in that world.
A smell of longing overfills her, 
every corner of her, body and soul.