Some things when gone,
I can still carry on.
I would go around my room
on the third day after some infinite forevers,
opening jars with familiar scents.
I took the biggest whiff I could
of almond scented lotion,
a fragrance I’ve been fond of for many years,
and it smelled like absolutely
nothing.
The next day—on Thanksgiving Day—
at my doorstep, shredded chicken breast my mom dropped off
and on the phone she asked,
“How does it taste?
How about the new spices?”
I sampled another piece,
still warm and tender,
but nothing more.
“It tastes great Mom.”
I try another piece,
pressing it against the sides of my cheeks,
and letting it sit just a bit longer
but my mouth doesn’t water like it used to with
scrambled eggs,
strawberry sponge cake,
chocolate chip cookies,
roasted Brussel sprouts,
or even an apple.
Oh dear smell,
please don’t go,
some things when gone,
the flash of life that was once so full.