Amygdala and the Kiss
Nonny: Breaking English between each line, her silver-capped smile summoned me forward for a celery-water kiss misted with a hint of Chanel.
Dad: Dental amalgam powder graced his collar when he walked into the house. Bending down to kiss my head, the scent of his day lingered above me for hours.
Grandpa: Wiry, grey mustache hair bristled my cheek, leaving the scrape of a kiss along with the scent of Apricot Brandy and menthol drops.
Luke: Milkdrunk lips parted the gummy smile as his head rested heavy in my arms. I leaned into the sweetness to steal a kiss before slumber.
Rob: Peppermint gum and youth, salty kisses from laughing to tears, from the ocean, from the sand that whipped into our faces when you bent on one knee. There isn't a smell that does not remind me of you - burned popcorn and root beer floats, cheap wine, expensive beer. The nose-cringing smell of bones and formaldehyde that sunk into your skin so even your lips required scrubbing.
There isn't a smell that does not remind me of us.
There isn't a kiss that I don't remember.
Love and Luck,
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