A darkness even thicker than losing Ward.
And now, here we are.
Slowly, I take another long, deep breath. I think about how I buried my nose in his hair as I stood behind him at his first suit fitting while I studied his reflection in the mirror.
About every Election Day hug I give him before sending him out the door, holding him, breathing him in just like this.
They say the sense of smell is very powerfully tied to memories. I know that’s true for me. It’s why I hate going to any public venue, like a fair, where I might smell any food that could possibly remind me of street vendors on city corners. It’s why there’s a certain brand of lube I won’t buy and refuse to have in our house, because it nearly makes me cry when I smell it.
It’s why I close my eyes and inhale when I open my Bible in church, because the gentle waft of ink and paper is one I spent countless hours with in those darkest days before Daniel’s dawn broke over my life and cast out most of my demons.
The only reason I can still eat sushi is because of all the previous memories I have of it, of working hard and earning it. I can focus on those instead of Ward, and the night he finally found his bravery, and I laid my hand on the table between us.
In my arms, Daniel shifts a little before settling again. I close my eyes and when one old memory tries to bubble up, of two boys and a suit fitting, I substitute it for a newer one instead and hope to find sleep on that emotional note.
