The Smell of Loss
Oumayma Oueghleni
About the Author:
Oumayma Oueghlani, a Tunisian, writes from a small grey desk as she watches the lemon tree sway. She has been observing life for twenty years.
Cover by @mullyadii (mulyadi.holmes@gmail.com)
The Smell of Loss
A green bowl of clementines on the table,
half full.
You ate the rest.
It’s been ten days
since your last one.
I hated clementines, lemons, bergamots,
yet our house always smelled of citrus.
No one wakes me at exactly 6 a.m. with a tea cup.
No one reads me poetry when I’m terribly sick.
No one washes my hair when breathing becomes daunting.
I have none.
The room still smells like you—
smoky, woody, strong.
Rain pours heavily on my eleventh day without you.
Remember how we got soaking wet
rushing home from the nearby bar?
The twelfth day is different.
Sun spills over everything.
I hear the birds humming,
and our lemon tree glimmers, almost magical.
But the wound is not healed.
Day 456.
The house no longer smells of citrus,
only my cigarettes.
The green bowl fell and broke,
and now I struggle to remember
the woodiness of your scent.
Now I eat clementines