But gradually, after gentle prodding, you'll get up
Wipe the tears away
Get on with your life, trembling a little that afternoon
As you sit with friends
You'll try not to think about the way your face seems tighter now.

Maybe weeks from it, you'll look back and cry again
Late, late at night, while a storm brews cold outside
And thunder punctuates the sky

And as much as you cling to it, time, like water in cupped hands, will pass.

And much, much later, you'll be sitting in a canoe in a lake,
almost alone,
paddle puncturing the water's glassy surface then coming up for air--
You'll think of it again and freeze for a second, remembering.

The paddle, the boat, the lake will go still
Even the wind will seem to pause
A scent will drift through the breeze and play a melody in your ear
So beautiful that your throat will ache for years when you try again to recall it
Because that smell brings it all back

For a minute or so you'll close your eyes and let yourself remember that smell, those days, that life
But you'll realize that it's getting late and you must be going
And you'll pick up the paddle and stretch your arms out
And wave a half-goodbye with a quiet hand, while the other one reminds you that it was only a smell,
and rhythmically rows you away.