Sometimes I think I know what it must feel like to be a junkie as I walk down the hall and into the back bedroom where all of the remains of Eric's earthly life reside behind the green doors of the closet. I stand before them, anticipating the high I'm going to get when I reach in and pull his pillow and quilt close to my face and breath in deep, imagining him standing before me. All the times I walked into his room and recoiled from the smell, politely, yet sternly informed him he needed to pick up his dirty clothes and put them in the laundry, only to see him a few minutes later doing exactly that. Eric was fastidious in his person, always showering and making sure he was clean and he always had a good soapy smell. His room and bed was another matter. The room, no matter which one he was residing in as he lived in every bedroom of the house at one time or another, would be a chaotic mess of dirty clothes, pieces of paper, old used dishes, pens, pencils, bike parts, metal and sand and dirt, but when reminded, he would take a few hours and clean it up, surprisingly well for someone who could neglect it as he did. But Eric always smelled good, kept his hair clean, yet sometimes very wild, and often had a soft almost redish beard. I always loved it when he shaved his face clean - he had such a baby face and I loved the soft lines along his mouth when he smiled.
Now I savor what little I have of the things he used and wore - those things that still have his scent clinging to them, not the soapy smell, but the smell of dirt and bicycle grease that reminds me so much of Eric. I'll never wash his quilt. I will keep his pillow wrapped in it to preserve what lingers there and, ultimately, brings me back to when he was here.
