It’s a hint, a wisp of a memory.
The forgotten bite of someone’s
cigarette smoke, or a sweet tang
of pipe tobacco and coffee.

The smell of powder from a
glass dish shaped like a dog.
Special day perfume lingering
on a scarf or sleeve like mist.

Stale smells of old ashtrays,
a lip of Cope or pull of chew.
Was it Juicy Fruit or Kool-Aid
that summer smelled like?

Kitchen smells can tease out
a whole decade of memories.
Car smells can put on miles
recalling maps and road signs.

When I try to recall though
they fade quickly, no hints.
Just a thought of what it
might have smelled like then.

They cross over too, the memories.
Vanilla – candles, air fresheners
or perfume? They me tangle up and
start me on paths worn and forgotten.

They are ambush predators every one.
Sneaking up with feelings and images,
non-tangible senses of things gone.
A tear or a laugh, scars ache and burn.

The scent of a memory lives as an
anchor and a trigger, a way to pull you
back in and awaken some forgotten
place in your heart, to live again.

Some last a fleeting moment, others
linger and bring with them a cascade
of other memories from scent, sound,
taste, touch – a blast from the past.

You can’t hold them, or keep them.
They are butterfly and wasp both,
Brush of something special and
a sting of something with no words.