that she had always liked my scent,
had on occasion failed to wash
to gain a fair extension for her nose,
and then, when forty years had past
she stood there in the aisle to get
a jar of peanut butter, which was loathed
and shunned by me, back then. The speakers
in the store were playing soothingly,
the song that promised what she felt,
it was by Whitney and it made her cry,
those tears came swiftly, running down her cheeks,
she’d smelled the scent there, near the many jars.

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