“A whole vanished universe is preserved by an odor. Lucile Delarue-Mardrus, the beautiful Norman poetess writes: “The odor of my country was an apple.””
(Bachelard, Poetic Reverie; 139)

My dad is an old truck
filled with tools, sawdust
and cigarette smoke.
My best friend indescribable,
like fresh laundry, sugar
and a rose or a lily
My mom like a warm bed
grass on a sunny day
and white cheddar popcorn
My neighbor lies in
hot chocolate with heavy cinnamon
and cookies
Lopez island wrapped in
the smoke of an apple pie
weed, cigarettes and liquor
I miss my car the most
vanilla, cigarettes, resin
and crème soda too
Barbara, my second mom
like fresh herbs, sage
pot-stickers and fire
I’m scared these smells
as they last longer
than those who they
represent