Blackbirds singing, linden blooming and a nauseating reek of roses. I withdraw to the back of the chapel.
I can neither face the fake sorrow of her family nor myself.
We had met a grey Monday in November.
I remember the scent of wet wool as I sat, squeezed inside the belly of the subway; staring into darkness when suddenly, in reflection, I drowned inside her eyes.
We left together, we made love the following months until her last cancerous heartbeat.
I leave the chapel before her sermon ends and walk toward the subway missing the scent of wet wool.
Tonight I was in the mood to write about sorrow using scents. Hope it works to signal emotions.
Friday Fictioneers is steered by Rochelle, and each Wednesday she offers us a new picture, and we write, we comment and try our best to read as many as we can. I usually have troubles commenting until Sunday, but I will do my best to be earlier.
February 20, 2018