Day 663 April 26, 2022

Buried Treasure 

Today smelled like an old photo album, 

the one with the glue pages, 

the cellophane sheets that peeled apart like lightning. 

Today also smelled like cigarette smoke 

and someone else’s sweat. 

When I walked, 

it felt as if water was seeping into my shoe, 

the rain at once falling and not falling, 

raining and not raining. 

I wanted to call you, 

but I did not have your telephone number. 

I wanted to thank you, 

because sometimes we just want to be held. 

Everything is a mirage you said, 

and I agreed 

except by then 

everything had faded and I could only see people, 

their arms, 

their legs, 

no faces. 

They say all smells are memories, 

that every scent evokes the lived experience of other scents 

and there is no such thing as a disembodied smell. 

We remember with our noses, 

I might have said. 

And if I had, 

you would just stare and pretend I said something different, 

but the earthen smell of your body reminded me about dark rooms, 

the glow of a red light, 

somebody talking non-stop to forestall the emptiness. 

Today tasted like my mother’s curry, 

the smell leaving a molecular trail up my nostrils, 

behind my cheeks, 

deep into dreaming breaths, 

a particular kitchen lamp, 

the pattern of self-stick linoleum tiles, 

the nook where the dog used to sleep. 

I imagined writing a thriller, 

a work of science fiction, 

a depraved morality play. 

Instead, 

I listened to the pain of remembering, 

the smell of damp earth, 

the time I dug a hole to bury the thing I treasured most.