My kitchen smells like bacon.
It should have been fried but I baked it and set off the smoke detector.
I nearly gave you a heart attack.
Biscuits made with love and a prayer. Gravy made with a miracle.
My living room smells like candles.
These should have been already been burned but I've been moving them around for ten years.
I didn't want to let you go (at least subconsciously).
I should send a note to Pottery Barn with a kind product comment about longevity.
My garage smells like charcoal.
Ashes lingering on the ground from coals taken all the way back to dust.
I was fine with letting you go.
Dinners made with a head lamp, mild burns and mosquito spray.
My office smells like film.
Negatives discarded with old prints.
It took deep breaths to let you go.
Memories, reminders, triggers, anchors cut loose with a garbage bag.
My bedroom smells like you.
It's what makes the house seem empty.
I won't let you go.
Love notes savored in moments between plane rides.
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