A Post I came across on Wordpress:

I looked at all my things laid out in front of me and felt a sense of wonder at how they painted the picture of my life. Three suitcases played out on K’s reading room floor. A sea of black, white, and red fabric, my pots and pans, my kitchen knife, my favorite wooden spoon stained yellow from turmeric, the camera I bought for my trip to Istanbul, a notebook with the saddest love letter I ever wrote inside, another notebook with the plot of my next novel inside, two bottles of fountain pen ink -one red,one black- a pair of my father’s old surgical scrubs that remind me of the smell of hospital and orange and cedar cologne. I’d give a lot to know what scent my father wore. I’ve never known the name. It comes in a dark green glass bottle more elegantly tapered than Ralph Lauren Polo. The nozzle is gold. The cap is square and crystal-cut to reflect the light. My mother bought it for him in Belgium, when I was 7. There are notes of smooth cedar, vetiver, of tobacco and neroli. I know I couldn’t afford it even if I found it. I don’t want to buy it. I want to find it again one day so I can remember with certainty what it felt like to be eight and nine and ten standing next to my father at his monstrously large bathroom mirror, feet cold on the marble floor, as he put on his cufflinks and then one quick spritz of the only other scent I associate with him besides a hospital surgical suite.

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