On a Shelf

I was cleaning a bit today when I got home from work, getting things ready for Libes to stay over tomorrow night. I went in what used to be "Rick's bathroom" for the first time in a while and opened the medicine cabinet. Early on, I threw away every used toiletry he owned. But in the medicine cabinet, I forgot I had kept his cologne next to a bottle of Listerine.

There it was, something I couldn't throw out. There it was, full of memories. There it was, just begging to be smelled.

I took it out and held the bottle in my hands. Joy or pain? I wanted to remember the smell. But I was afraid to feel the rush of a cry well up inside me and come out if the scent hit me in the memory part of my mind. 

I held the cologne bottle. I remembered how funny it was a couple of years ago when Rick decided he wanted to switch colognes. He ordered samples of a bunch of different high end colognes, and created a rating system for all of them on a spreadsheet. One of the categories was which one I liked the best. He wore each one - I think there were 7 options - for two days to give them a full assessment. He ended up getting the one I liked the best. It smelled so good. 

He was so serious about choosing one that it was hilarious and I'm sure I made a Facebook post about it. 

I miss that smell. That cologne. 

I didn't want to torture myself by smelling the cologne from the medicine cabinet. But I didn't want to miss out either. After all, it's kind of like an old friend. 

I held the bottle to my nose and inhaled. It smelled like my old life. 

Tears sprang into my eyes immediately, like a reflex. I held the cologne bottle to my chest and said something to Rick before placing the bottle back in its spot in the medicine cabinet. 

My old life belongs on a shelf. But I can remember it any time I feel the need.