Neil San Francisco — 1985 Scent Memory

Neil is awakened by an insistent tapping. Pamela is gone. Blinking awake, he sees Huck pecking at the window. He blinks again, twists out of bed and opens the window. Huck flies in, cawing indignantly.

“Oh hush.” Neil says, throwing a few peanuts at Huck. Huck fluffs up his wings, shakes his head and hops to the glass besides Neil’s bed for water.

Neil looks down at the twisted bedclothes. They lie like a topical map under the harsh light of the sun. Neil buries his face in the sheets. They smell of Pam. Neil sprawls naked on the bed, wrapping himself in her scent. It is better than chocolate.

Ever since Neil first saw the small white baby, cold and beautiful as a moonbeam, he has felt apart, marked, alone. That is why it has never surprised him to hear ghosts in the wind. That is why it is no surprise now, to find himself alone again with only Huck for company, Huck, and the fragrance of Pamela that clings to the bedding sweet as love, enduring as memory.