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.
The places you’re going are never on the map
“As you start traveling down that road of life, remember this: there are never enough comfort stops. The places you’re going are never on the
