Remembering him never begins in visions or sounds; it always begins with scents.

–

My heart is trashing- not beating- from the weight of hope and pressure. I’ve rehearsed every word, every question a million times in anticipation for this interview; but my palms are sweaty, and I swear the air is thinning around me. Any minute now, I’ll be face-to-face with Mr. R.J. Woodford – CEO and the one person who can turn decades of hard work and sacrifice over a dream into my reality.

The door opens. I instantly shoot to my feet: hand outstretched and rehearsed smile formed- but the moment Mr. Woodford’s cologne hits me, everything slips. Smoke, forest, clove and that soft whisper of vanilla- all reminders of him. The world halts as the scent brings me back to when I was sixteen in North Carolina for the Summer of 2015…

–

Salt air intertwines with the campfire’s smoke ; their mixing curls around us and holds us tight like a comforting embrace. His rough, callused fingers are laced with mine, as steady and warm as the fire before us. We both are trying to hold onto what we know can never last. We speak in hushed voices as dawn draws nearer, waiting to take me away.

I should be memorizing how his face looks in the firelight; instead, I watch the embers rise to the night above and the sea before us. The scent of burning oak wraps around me, comforting yet bittersweet. I let it fill my lungs, my best attempt not to break.

“Please look at me,” Thom pleads, his voice barely louder than the crashing waves.

I slowly turn towards him, my throat tight. Tears begin to form as I whisper, “I don’t want this to…”

But before I can finish, his hand curls around the back of my neck and draws me into a kiss- deep, desperate and filled with everything we don’t know how to say . His mouth is warm and feels like home . This close, I can smell his cologne, clover and clean linen, mixed with the soft, earthy scent of the smoke.

The kiss deepens as he lays me gently onto the sand. I reach up, guiding his head so I can kiss the back of his neck. The smell of the woods we wandered all day echoes in his hair — sun-warmed pine needles, the sweet rot of leaf litter, damp bark and the trace of moss. The scent of summer and boyhood slowly slipping away.

I twirl our bodies so I lay on top of him, and slowly kiss down from his collarbone, across his chest, tracing the salt left by the sea air, breathing him in desperately like I might forget him. His sunscreen is faded now, worn thin by the ticking of time, yet it still smells softly of vanilla.