Yesterday afternoon while I was reading a book by a Japanese author, the protagonist described missing her deceased father’s smell—smoke and body odor; gross.
I have a tin of my dad's pipe tobacco that I keep up high on a shelf. He died in 1996. Every few years I open the tin and take a deep whiff and am brought right back to sitting on his lap while he filled his pipe.
But last year I opened the tin and the smell had finally completely gone. Just metallic-tinged air. I cried like a baby. And my lovely husband went on a secret mission to find me a new pack of the same tobacco so I could put it inside the tin and refresh the smell. When I opened it at Christmas it was the most amazing thing. Smell is so so powerful.
I think it's good to cry, sometimes. To honor. And remember something so very personal.
I have a tin of my dad's pipe tobacco that I keep up high on a shelf. He died in 1996. Every few years I open the tin and take a deep whiff and am brought right back to sitting on his lap while he filled his pipe.
But last year I opened the tin and the smell had finally completely gone. Just metallic-tinged air. I cried like a baby. And my lovely husband went on a secret mission to find me a new pack of the same tobacco so I could put it inside the tin and refresh the smell. When I opened it at Christmas it was the most amazing thing. Smell is so so powerful.
I think it's good to cry, sometimes. To honor. And remember something so very personal.
This left me v teary. I hear and feel you.
Michelle, I will keep searching for that smell. Give your husband a hug for me - good man.