Sometimes I can still smell him – or something like him- in my parent's closet, standing at his dresser. If I close my eyes, nuzzle my nose into his old shirt and breathe deep, he's there. It helps if I've just opened his bathroom cabinet and taken a whiff of his Eternity bottle. It generally happens only in those spaces- the bathroom and closet. His truck is gone, his office is no longer his own, and the garage has been cleaned out at least twice since he walked among the clutter. Five years sounds like a long time – but when I stack my acute grief – which had its claws in me for at least two years and the almost 3 years of pandemic life –it's five wobbly years. Full-to-the-brim with grief, change, introspection, laughter, pain, messy rooms, a messier car, family game nights, and Topo Chico. I won't ever eat that salad from that place again. I was stress eating a salad in the hospital – in the middle of a Whole 30 – when I went back to my dad's hospital room ...
