I didn’t mean to.

I was only trying to help,

to help him,

 

because he missed you so much.

 

He was in your closet.

He came out and said,

“It doesn’t smell like Daddy anymore.”

 

He looked so sad.

He looked so forlorn.

 

So I showed him my secret.

Your cap.

The one I keep folded up

tight,

in a Ziplock bag,

stashed in my

bedside table.

 

I unzipped it.

 

We both inhaled.

It smelled like you.

 

And then his face crumbled.

Mirroring mine, I think.

 

Your smell.

Your smell reminding us,

of how it no longer surrounds us,

how it is not just part of the background of our lives,

how it is fading,
from your cap,
from us.

 

We didn’t remember what you smelled like

till that moment.

 

And after we remembered,

 

me and Ezra,

Ezra and I,

sat on the floor
holding each other,

sobbing like ….

 

the people we are.

A wife,

a son,

missing you.