….if that’s not the title of your indie band’s CD, it should be.

End of a long day. Double shift. Trying to tidy up before guests tomorrow. And I got a package in the mail, one I was expecting, with side effects I wasn’t. My mother, sainted lady that she will most certainly be, was kind enough to post my W2 and other tax forms to me, along with my warm-weather jacket.

I’ve only had this jacket for a few months, but when it came out of the box and I put it on, I could smell….and this is going to sound creepy, but you gotta believe…my grandfather. Who has been dead since I was 10 years old.

What does dead grandfather smell like? That’s an easy one. Toast. Cigarettes. Wood polish. Seawater. Vanilla. The smell caught me so off guard, my reaction was so visceral, I can admit I stood in my kitchen for about five minutes holding my jacket with tears in my eyes. I really miss him. It’s not something I speak about often, but I’ve got a real envy of friends whose grandparents lived to see them grow up. Saw them graduate college, and get married. Mine were all gone by the time I was 13, and though you can always have surrogates, to not have the real things leaves you a bit sad.

The smell will fade off my jacket. But the fact that something so simple as smell bring back, albeit temporarily, those who left you early, is hopefully a sensation that will stick around.