It’s 9 am on a Tuesday; I’ve been at work for an hour, and I’m breathing in the rich scent of my second cup of coffee. I think about how over the past few years you quit drinking coffee for the most part, even though you liked it – it made your anxiety worse. For a while we switched to decaf at home, but it just wasn’t the same.
Our sense of smell can be so comforting, but also, so painful in times like this. After sleeping alone in our bed for the first time after you died, I went into your glamour cave and found the perfume you wore on our wedding day. Every once in a while I spritz it on the pillows on your side of the bed, and let those happy memories flood back. It makes me cry.
The smell of pancakes and waffles will never be the same; that was our favorite weekend breakfast – I haven’t made waffles in months and month, even though I have a box of our all-time favorite mix at home.
I miss the smell of your cooking when I get home from work – you were such a good cook. I also miss the smell of you, cuddling in bed – my arms around you, my nose pressed into your hair.
Note: this was written based on a writing prompt provided to me through a paid course I am taking. I am not including the prompt, because the daily prompts are a critical component of that course.