My father died a year or so ago. And yet, I can still smell the smoke of his favorite cigarettes, every now and then. Usually, I smell it in the place in our house where six doors face each other. It stays there, a lingering memory, sometimes for the whole night.
At other times, I feel it: the weight of his slow shuffling gait - our floor is made in the old style; wooden floorboards over support beams. I can sense the shift in the floorboards, ever so slightly, as he walks across the room.
Strangely enough, here, where I sit and type this, there is no haunting, even though this is also where he died. It was very early in the morning, on the day he was supposed to have his first chemotherapy session.
He also hasn't visited my mother.
And so it happens every few weeks: the smell of airborne ash.
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