"Do I stink?" he said as I leaned into his stiffening shoulder and breathed deeply in.
"No," I said, slightly perplexed, "You smell like....you." And as I took a second breath, I was transported back in time, to a time not transcending pain, but before it.
My eyes were tired and heavy. I had a cold that I hadn't shaken since the moment I stepped on the plane. I had fallen asleep, and I startled when he pounded roughly on the motel room door. My heart beat wildly, and my chest and face flushed instantly. I quickly surveyed the immaculate room before racing to the door.
He waited with his head down. He always waited with his head down. I pressed myself against the door, nervously peering out. I tried desperately to spot something, anything that would distinguish this man from a million other Jacksonville Marines.
The moment he heard the chain fall gently against the door, he rushed in to hold me, whisking me away. With no hope of calming from familiarity, for there was none, my heart raced on. And as I held on tightly, my feet high above the floor, I breathed him in.
"What are you thinking," Papa Bear asked.
As I snapped back to present day, to our bustling home and the warmth of a crackling fire, I could only think to say, "I don't know when it happened. I love smelling you again."
And I don't think he understood, but he smiled like he did.
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