They met when they were in college.
She was immensely attracted by his maleness
and that he never used aftershave or cologne.
He reminded her of a well-oiled baseball glove,
of a freshly ironed, heavily starched shirt.
When he was tender and loving, he smelled safe,
like her father walking with her in the Maine
woods after her alcoholic mother locked them
out of the isolated farmhouse called home.
When their daughter was born, he was ecstatic,
reeking of pride, relief and the smell of cheap
cigars with pink bands that he passed out
to everyone in his exuberance.
As their daughter grew into adolescent radiance
she gave off an aura slightly fruity and mysterious,
faint and promising but not yet matured.
At least once he had another woman and guilt
gave off an odor like a huge fish that had been
left on the banquet table a little too long.
She always knew when he was angry by a sourness,
like the garbage can after the bag had broken and
decomposing rotting food congealed on the bottom.
As he lay dying she was surprised to find that
he smelled dry and sort of musty but not at all
unpleasant, like her grandmother’s clothes closet.
The undertaker covered him with a musky perfume
which bothered her almost more than his death
but she managed to feel better after she found
an old shirt of his in the back of a drawer.
It smelled faintly of him, something she never fully
appreciated until the shirt took on her scent
over time.
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