I find you in everything I do and everywhere I go.
I find you at midnight when the air outside is brisk and my body is cold. I smell you in between my white sheets through the lavender laundry detergent you thought might help me relax.
I find you in gardens when the smell of tulips remind me of the bouquet you left at my doorstep one March evening just because it was Thursday or the day we went to the city on a school day just for tulip mania and donuts.
I find you in play grounds and in nature walks when the smell of bark brings me back to the day you carved our initials into the tree we spilt tons of paint on after working on a canvas. You told me that everyone was artistic regardless of their capabilities so you filled a dozen eggs with paint and we ran around like children throwing the eggs at the canvas. I nearly missed every throw and left a memory forever printed into that tree. That was the day you imprinted something into my heart. That was the day you told me you were in love with me.
I find you in the books I read. We were similar and different all in the same ways. I loved the way new books smelled yet you liked the smell of old books. Every time I step into a bookstore I get a whiff of a memory that has ended along with every other story told.
I find you during my early morning runs when petrichor is the closest thing that I grasp of the motivation you once gave me at five a.m. When the rain pours in the mornings I smell the day we ran our fastest mile of the year because we were so worried about ruining our new running shoes–I can’t get myself to wear those shoes anymore.
I don’t just find you in places, I smell you. I know that it may sound ludicrous smelling someone who is no longer around, but I can’t seem to erase you from my senses. I can’t make you disappear if you’re still lingering in the air.