Quiet, Easy Spring Nights There are smells that do not leave you; haunting, defining aromas that install presence and memory. Sense memory is no joke. It can trigger everything from Oscar performances to acts of human anguish. From selling us exorbitantly over-priced homes via false cookies, to afternoons changed by three stanzas of a song. Beside a garden wall, I remember a lot of things. The smell of your hands, behind your ear, the scent the wind carried when I realized we were saying goodbye. The roar your engine conveyed as the loop of the City hit the plugs. The song I could not sing will swell years from now, and I will be once again anew.There are things you know, like, don't bet against the house, and that purple looks bad on everyone, that will ring true long past Sunday. And no matter how long you argue, you gut wins out. I don't want to sing Little Bird to this yet, but I am beginning to ask hard questions about a lot. But past everything, I once knew happy. So that's something. Goodnight, Gracie.