For twenty-two dollars I can wear the scent that is my grandfather.

Silky lotion in a black tube.

Arsenic, a drop of poison returns me to childhood and a certain morning light.

Of summer and sleepovers and waking to the bubble and hiss of the percolator.

There is milk with coffee and sugar, brimming in a dainty cup scattered with roses.

There is tobacco from a tin and pipe smoke, heady, sweet, and fruity.

An ocean of traffic, wave after wave in our ears.

We are there, together and separate, cosy on flowered cushions.

A plaid robe and pink nightgown, slippers and bare toes.

No words spoken, no words needed, hearts filled with love.

Colleen Sohn