It hits you in the strangest of moments, that scent of something lost. It's 3 am and the pictures are scattered across her bed again. If you ask her, she'll tell the truth this time. Things are not okay.
Snow has been cleared from most of the parking garage. The lampposts are always shining. Music is playing through computer speakers. For tonight, silence is too loud. She's not ready for that. She's not ready for that yet.
She's not ready to be alone.
When she closes her eyes, she remembers the smell of latkes that always seemed to linger and the nights she shared her bed. She remembers bagel breakfasts and eight hour car rides. She remembers party hats and streamers and acting out Purim spiels. She remembers tickling and laughter and arms wrapped around her.
She's feeling naked now. She needs someone to hold.
She wishes she had never let go.
