The Scent of a Woman

 The Scent of a Woman
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 had subsided and were becoming less intense and less frequent. It wasn’t that I loved her less; it was that the hurt I was feeling couldn’t continue without me going insane. Time slowly blunted my grief to the point I could take a breath without missing her. My heart would take a few beats without feeling the crushing pain. It eventually became easier to climb out of bed each morning. I was waking less tired from a restless, image-filled slumber.
There were still photographs of her on the walls, the bureau, and in other areas of our home. They served as a reminder of what a gracious and loving person she had been. Seeing her face was a comfort to me. It seemed that she was still near.
It was my work that kept me lucid. Every day, I showered, shaved, brushed my teeth and drove to my job. My work routine had been set apart from my life with her. The separateness of it allowed me to continue to function. I didn’t say live, but I managed to move 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 paychecks, old check books, financial statements, and other odds and ends. The first cardboard box wasn’t large. It seemed like in no time I’d reached the bottom and filled a trash bag with the discards. I returned the important papers that I thought needed to be saved. When I returned the box, there was another carton tucked to one 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. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pulled the carton close. “What it could be?”
I slipped my fingers beneath the tightly folded flaps and lifted the overlapping tabs that closed the top of the box. I tugged until they finally separated with a soft pop. Anxious to see what was inside, I leaned over. Tears quickly welled up in my eyes. The box was filled with clothing that Rose had at one time stored. Although they were washed and clean, her scent remained intact and as I opened the carton, it floated free.
Pandora’s Box had been opened. There was no way for me to return it to the way it was before the vault had been breached. Old wounds were reopened. The pain and grief was still there; alive, buried inside of me but so was our love.