I recently met a woman covered in the scent of grief as she spoke in memory of her mother and husband. I listened, inhaling the aroma of her sadness. It smelled familiar, and yet unfamiliar. Like a perfume I know I have smelled before, but could not identify the name. Still, it clings to her, musky and bold.
She did not cry. Her eyes did not even tear up. She spoke matter-of-factly as if her loved ones were standing beside us. Their memories so real, they almost appeared at the sound of her voice.
She lives so much in the past that I was not even sure if she knew I am from the present. Like a time traveler, her reality remains stuck on yesterday.
Still, I breathed her sorrow in while listening to her stories.
3 days ago