Poetry, Serial Addiction -- Your Weekly Read Seven Posted by Editor on January 15, 2013 Hit with a scent memory, cascading whiffs of cigarette smoke mingling with Dove soap. Suddenly taken back, back to early childhood. To Maw Maw’s house. Age seven. And it’s a real memory. Seen through my eyes as I saw it then. It’s not a memory reconstructed, where you see yourself as well as what you remember. The memory is a stone thrown into your liquid soul, rippling through your body. The scent of your cologne on your shirt – the last shirt you wore. And I am taken back to a hug and a kiss on the cheek. A real memory through my eyes. Seven weeks since you died. Seven weeks and two days since I last saw you. I need one last hug so that you know how dearly I loved you, to know you loved me, still as the waters of my soul after the stone passes. Share this:FacebookTwitterPinterestRedditPocketMoreTumblrLinkedInEmailPrintLike this:Like Loading... Related
I am so sorry for your loss
Thank you. I lost my younger brother last year. We were very close — I loved him dearly.