It's an elating sensation. Heartening. Vitalizing. Like the familiarity of the scent that used to cling to the fibers of my father's clothing- a delicate mix of cotton, men's soap, and the cement dust that coated the interior of his warehouse.
As a child, this was the sense that I clung to. It was the reason why I treasured my father's hugs on the nights he returned home from work late. As he would bend forward to reach his arms around my shoulders, I would wrap mine around his waist and bury my face into his stomach, taking in his scent with wild admiration. Breath after breath, this was my father I was smelling- his love, his strength, his companionship.
As I grew older, this was the sense that I craved to remind myself of as the years elapsed and our lives grew farther apart from one another. Late nights at work became long weekends and later stays. I also began to spend much of my time out of the house, maturing, growing, and surrounding myself in my own late nights, long weekends, and later stays. But on the few nights that I caught him standing in the doorway with his arms outstretched for me, I would bury my face against his chest just as I had as a child- the only difference being my change in height, and the strength at which he now held me. Lovingly, but with a certain ache. Tired. Missed.
On these nights, I would fill myself with the smell of my father, as if to resupply the emptied gauge of his presence that I held with me. I would consume myself in each breath I took of him, securing him in my memory, engraining him in my inhale, carrying him with me even as we parted our separate ways.
It is now the sense I hold with such a tight grasp that I can sometimes access it, even without truly doing so. When I think of my father, I can almost smell him. Almost. The memory of his hugs kept with me. The security of his presence. The sentimentality of him. This is my father I'm almost smelling.
The cotton, men's soap, and cement dust.
