My father’s signature aroma of Dial soap and English Leather cologne enveloped his blue and black plaid nightshirt, which I could not part with as we packed up most of his belongings. I needed to smell his very essence, feeling as if our souls were connecting through the scent, a way to hold on to him after death. How sad, then, that over these fourteen years since he has been gone, the smell has slowly faded and then vanished, yet I still cannot part with his nightshirt, which hangs next to my own robe.
from the shop
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