The Scent of Memory

by

Fay Ulanoff

            The day I stepped onto the long Island Railroad I knew something was missing.

            The thing that eluded me, which is politically incorrect, was the smell of tobacco.

            The scent brought to mind, my dad who, now long gone, was a smoker. Who’d puff away at least two packs a week.

            Perhaps you say, filters, but no they were not for him.  He preferred the strongest cigarettes he could get. And I, as a child, who did not know any better, loved his cologne, which I refer now, as tobacco.

            I’d cuddle up, and listen to him read me a Golden Book, while sitting on his lap in our favorite overstuffed chair. Then and drink it in.

            The montage of photos, of my parents has a prominent place where I can visit them every day.

            My mom smiles back from hers and I remember some of the closeness we shared, but when I stare into the image of my dad, I conjure up the fine aroma of tobacco, which brings me back to the story time we shared in our old house, sitting in our chair.

            So yes they have sanitized the old smoking cars and those people who could not kick their unhealthy habit, who were ostracized, but they do exist and I on a limited basis do not mind if a person lights up now and then, because to me it is the scent of a memory, that I cherish, between dad and I.