It’s 11:00 on a Tuesday morning, and I can still smell Greg’s cologne lingering in our bedroom, even though he is at work. The cologne bottle now lies in my bathroom drawer, untouched for 8 months. The cologne is strong, and sometimes it gives me a headache, but it will forever be Greg’s smell to me. So many memories come when I think of his smell. They are all good. Going on dates with him, getting ready for special events, nestling my head into his chest as we danced or hugged and breathing in his scent. Now, I almost don’t remember it. Nothing smells like him anymore. His clothes smell like clothes now.
Greg loved to cook, and I miss the smells that filled our house. He loved to cook with garlic salt. Everything had garlic in it, and I wasn’t a fan of the smell. Now I would love to smell him cooking garlicky foods again. He cooked anything and everything from treats to meats, and he loved to experiment with new things. His banana squash soup will not be missed by the kids, but I imagine if we smelled it again, we would all consider liking it.
The smell of death. That’s the last smell that I smelled of Greg. I can still remember it. He smelled strongly as he lay in the casket. I was surprised by this. The smell stuck on my hands after I touched him. I wished for the smell of his cologne instead, but at the same time, I relished in his scent, as I knew it would be the last scent.