Seven

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.

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