The Scent of a Woman (Fictional Story)
My wife Rose had been gone for almost a year. I was feeling lonely and nostalgic as the first anniversary of her death drew near. The nightly dreams where she visited me had subsided, becoming less intense and less frequent. It wasn’t that I loved her less; it was that the hurt I felt I couldn’t continue without me going insane. Time slowly blunted the sharp edge of my grief to the point I could almost take a breath without missing her. My heart would occasionally make a few beats without the feeling of crushing pain. It became slightly easier to climb out of bed each morning. I was awake, feeling less tired from my restless, image-filled slumber.
There were still photographs of her on the wall, bureau, and other areas of our home. They served as a reminder of what a gracious and loving person she was. Seeing her face was sometimes painful, but it also gave comfort to me. It made me feel that she was somehow still near.
It was work that kept me lucid. Every day, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth, and drove to my job. The work routine had always been set apart from my life with her. The separateness of it allowed me to continue to function in at least some part of my life. I didn’t say live, but I managed to exist through each twenty-four hour cycle.
With the dreaded first year marker approaching, I decided to sort through several boxes of old bills and assorted papers that we’d accumulated and stored. There were old bills, paychecks, old check books, financial statements, and other odds and ends. The first cardboard box I chose wasn’t large. It seemed no time at all; I’d reached the bottom. There was a trash bag at my side, filled with the discards. I returned important papers that I still thought needed to be saved. When I returned the box there was another carton tucked to the side of the closet. It was a taller and much lighter. There was no writing on the outside to indicate what was stored inside. I had no recollection of placing it there. I was sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulled the carton close. “What it could be?”
I slipped my fingers beneath the tightly folded flaps, lifting the overlapping tabs that secured the top of the box. Tugging steadily, they finally separated with a soft pop. Anxious to see what was inside, I leaned over it. Tears quickly welled up in my eyes. The box was filled with clothing that Rose had at one time saved. Although they were washed and clean, her scent remained. As I opened the box the sachet floated free.
Pandora’s Box had been violated. There was no way for me to return it to the way it was before it had been accidentally breached. Old wounds were revived. The intense pain was still there. It had been buried deep, but now it was reopened. Memories escaped in a rush of love.