Smell

When you were born, I sniffed rose water to keep me calm.

Lavender lined the crib, sage in the window. Pine trees on the way home, cedar in the driveway.

Your grandpa, he likes the smell of smudge; your grandma doesn't.

When I stopped drinking, I started to love the smell of marijuana. No, I loved the smell of it, before, too, and gasoline. I don't know why. And fire, skunks, and fresh-mowed grass even though it makes me sneeze.

Everyone loved the smell of your head and I didn't get it. Now I do. You smell like dirt and sweat, and I pray you'll be young forever.

You won't.

You'll grow, and as you do you'll learn to appreciate smells too.

The smell of a beautiful woman. Or a beautiful man, it's too soon to tell.

Your nose will tell you when to come in for dinner, when the bacon is done cooking, when a storm approaches. It'll tell you when it's too hot to work. When it's time to shower, or clean the couch. When your first child needs a new diaper.

Your nose will tell you memories, too.

Peppermint like Christmas. Coffee like a sunny morning. Wood in your grandpa's shop, a bit burned where the saw paused too long. Death has a smell, too.

But life has so many more. Breathe deep, babe.