in my living room
it smells like my grandparents old house that no one has consistently lived in for as long as I can remember
it smells like dust and my dead great grandmother that I can't quite remember and sunlight of crisp early summer mornings shining through covered windows and spiders dancing across the ceiling along dust covered webs that look like cotton
it smells like the steep staircase I was always afraid of climbing and the old vinyls my mom took to Florida and back, twice, and my grandmother's sadness from her mom and old medical equipment next to aged family photo albums
it smells like childhood memories and faded words and not quite understanding what the grown-ups are talking about and not really caring
it smells like my dead great grandfather and the time I saw him lying in a hospital bed
the only memory I have of him
dying
and embracing it
