I don’t like things that have no smell.
For me, that is a violation of a sacred trust.
No smell! … what are you hiding?
I like the smell of the wood under the piano,
And my pillow stuffed with their old shirts and socks.
The scent of their hands are wholesome and familiar,
Even though they are often almost buried beneath the
Plastic stench of perfumed cleaners, or faux-leather tennis shoes,
The kind that, if I were still into chewing, I would never waste my time with,
Preferring instead to gum fervently, almost maniacally, the baseball glove,
Or the Italian handbag, with great apologies to my distant cousin the cow.
The couch is some kind of synthetic blend, though I like it more for what
Lies in layers on top of it.
Ice cream and tomato sauce, dirt and spit, sweat and salt.
The children of course are treasures.
Each day flying through the door with something
Not immediately identifiable.
And that’s saying something given the mileage on this smooth brown nose.
It could be play-dough, or crayons or wood chips.
If might very possibly be that thing, the name escapes me,
That they use to clean the toilet, or the liquid they dump on their little heads,
When they itch and scratch for a few moments before they lose themselves in play.
But the greatest smell, the most calming air is, of course, the house.
The combination of all of the above.. the food and the blood,
The salt from the little ones tears,
The dirty window sills that no one ever finds the time to clean,
The garbage hidden under the sink,
And the sad but comforting memories of my friends the cats,
Who loved them before I came along
And who I hope to see again sometime, not too soon.
