That smell. I hate that smell. That smell brought apprehension. That smell meant suffocation. That smell meant separation.

Many times throughout my early years, I encountered that smell in the emergency room. When I was older, the smell accompanied a green mask, green tubing, and a green tank of oxygen. That smell meant I was dying.

The first time the smell assaulted me, there was no mask. There was no tubing. But the smell was just the same. Not quite fresh air, it was a mixture of plastic and oxygen laced with antiseptics and rubbing alcohol.

I open my eyes and cry. I'm all alone. Clear plastic separates me from the people. I don't know them. I'm scared.

Oh, wait, there's Daddy. He's wearing my favorite fuzzy, sky blue sweater. I want him to hold me and let me grip that sweater in my tiny hand. I want to go home.

He waves at me through the translucent tent. I hear him call my name and tell me he loves me. But if he loves me, why won't he take me home? Why is he leaving me here? Come back, Daddy. Come back!

[193 words]

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A/N: When I was seven years old, my parents held a garage sale. My mom had me pull out some of my father's old clothes that he had not worn in years. The fuzzy, sky-blue sweater was part of that pile. As soon as I touched it, I remembered this scene.

I was six months old. It was the only time I had ever been in an oxygen tent. It was also the last day my father had worn that sweater, as my mom burned it with her cigarette when they were leaving the hospital. Crazy, huh?