I read Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes in High school.
I remember the part where the main character buries her father’s bloody clothes, as a final farewell.
I wondered what it smelled like, in that hot weather.
I didn’t throw the pillow out at first. She’d had a stroke and had bled all over it. In august. It had been a few days before they found her. It sat on the couch for quite a time, while I slowly cleared out the house. I had put my nose to it, smelled it, early on. The perfume she favored in the end was barely there. Mostly it smelled like old blood.
That scent changed over time. Her perfume disappeared altogether. It had died too. Finally, I threw it out. It was too early for a final farewell.
I do have her glasses. A small, gold-color frame. It doesn’t smell like her, but on the glass is an imprint of her skin.
I wore it once, a few years ago. So I can’t be completely certain anymore that the imprint is of her skin.
I like to think it is.