We sat in the sun-clad kitchen, sipping coffee and smoking all of her cigarettes …
“I love his scent,” she said. “I can smell him from across the street ,”
Pointing with her eyes out the window, I saw that he was slim, dark and apparently handsome. We’d never cause confusion in a line-up.
“So what’s he smell like to you? ” I asked.
Whatever she said, escapes me now. It was probably something about his peppery-sweat; or road-tar colored hair, that had her twitter-pated.
The next most obvious question dared to be uttered against my better judgement, but I had to know: “So, what do I smell like to you?”
Her answer both flattered and took me back: “Family,” she said.
Some family we’re born with, while some we choose.
A couple of years ago I was invited to a dear friend’s family shindig. Not my family, but that of a former girlfriend. In another case of family over futility, we chose to be siblings. Then towards the end of the week-long shindig, her father approached me and said,
“When I first met you, I couldn’t stand you. Then, after some time, I met you again and, well, I felt about the same …
… but now I feel, when you do find that you actually care for someone, you should let them know; and I want you to know, you’re welcome to be as much a part of this family as you want.”
Today, I sit at a chicken-fried counter in the LAX airport. I have an 8-hour layover before I fly to Manila where I’ll be reuniting with my new bride (Reference the “Meet Maritess” post if curious).
I’ve lived alone for most of the past 20 years. My “ways,” are set in mortar; I’ve been adopted by a thousand dear friends while simultaneously losing faith in the typical, love-clad relationship, for many years now. What will it be like to no longer be in need of a holiday invite? To have my own family to cook for, plan with; and smell all by my lonesome? Well, I’ll let you know.
My Margarita pizza is almost up … smells pretty good right about now.