Stumbling in the house at 1:30am, I lean against the door frame for support as I remove my shoes. Quietly; I can't wake the sleeping sisters or the baby.
Inhaling, the scent of the woodwork captivates me. It smells like my grandparents.
I pause here, alone, pressing against the wall with first my hips, then shoulders, then lastly my face; breathing in deeply the molecules that used to perfume the entire house, that scent I took completely for granted for seventeen years.
I linger too long, trying to preserve the moment as long as possible. Memories come crashing down through my head, too quickly to separate or define.
I miss you in my dreams. A couple times a month isn't enough. I need you more than that. I'll take the tearful, often hysterical, waking moments if it means I get to be with you again.
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