It's the smell of an old photo you found in a family trunk hiding deep in the house. A world war 2 picture of your great-grandfather posing in his uniform with his rifle, knee up and a look of pride on his face as he serves for his country. In the background, you can see the smoke pluming up from the camps scattered in the distance. The next item you pick up is his obituary in the paper, crinkled and deteriorating from the tear stains left on it.

It's the smell that overcomes you when you kneel in front of his grave in the fall to pay your respects and prove to yourself its still real. The decaying earth and crunchy leaves making their way back into the soil, starting life again. But nothing can bring back the life taken away. It only brings you back to the day you said your goodbyes.

It's the smell of the embalming fluid and a faint whiff of his favorite cologne that wafts over your face when you leaned over the casket. You grab his cold hands and remember the smell of his favorite meal, gooey mac and cheese with smokehouse brisket. The smell of his home and all the old books that you used to take adventures with when you sat on his lap as he told them.

The smell of his sweaters, slightly perfumed by mothballs to preserve the scratchy wool. The smell of his garage where he had all his old-fashioned tools and showed you how to tinker your way to greatness- making your own rocking chair. The smell of the oak wood used and the endless cans of coke drank to fuel the process.

The smell of the heavily perfumed church ladies, crying as if they knew him as well as they wish they did. The roses, his favorite, surrounding the open coffin to try to mask the chemical aroma in the air. That metallic smell of blood your lips let out as you bite down hard, trying not to show the weakness of your own tears.

The smell of rain pitter-pattering on the freshly covered grave, making little jumps when they hit a puddle. It's as if the sky understands your feelings as it cries tears of its own. The heavy, dense feeling of the clouds before they let their weight drop to the surface of the earth is the heaviness you feel in the corners of your mind, tugging their way into a deep dark hole.

It's the smell of a home burning in a fire, the siding and melting glass clattering to the ground. The attic erupting with dancing red and orange flames, burning bright like the sun as it burns through all you have ever known. The smell of all memories created there fading as if they were never made. You can almost smell the trunk itself cremating in the chaos, all sweaters, cologne, books, and pictures of him forever gone. The smell of that black smoke thick in the air, suffocating all the life ever there.