Ivory soap. The bar that floated. After my bath, I was 99.44% pure. My impurities left a ring around the tub.
Pine-Sol. Somebody cared enough about me to mop the floor I walked on.
Chalk dust. It collected in the tray beneath the blackboard in high school Spanish class. It sifted into the air as I passed notes to the football star two seats over.
Newsprint ink. One summer in college I proofed the copy for want-ads, ferreted out typos from freshly printed pages. It was a solitary job in the basement of the News-Press. My hermit sanctuary.
Shalimar. A dab on my throat. I bought it often when I was single. A splurge. A gift from me to me.
Eucalyptus trees. At the Vedanta Society in Santa Barbara. My husband, brother, sister, and I meditated at vespers. The eucalyptus blessed our prayers.
The aromas--gone. The me who discerned them––gone as well. Molecule by molecule, she drifted into the atmosphere like smoke. Even though I could reclaim these scents right now, they wouldn't be the same. Had I been wiser, I might have performed a ritual farewell, but I failed to acknowledge my transient treasures and a hundred million others that passed away each hour.
From now on, I intend to say goodbye like I really mean it. Closure is a luxury.