I learned the word “olfactory” in a second grade resource class. In this class, we studied the senses under the premise that it would enhance our learning abilities. We touched textures on a board — rough, smooth, scratchy, soft; we saw things in light and dark; we tasted — sweet, salty, sour; we listened — shrill, screeching, sibilant.

When it came to smells, though, they uncapped little film containers and asked us to identify the scents. We closed our eyes, put our hands behind our back and inhaled deep. The aromas hit our bodies like a drop of food coloring in a glass of water — pervasive and disseminate. I imagined the odors of vinegar, peanut butter, and roses landing inside the little crevices of my brain.

More than a decade later, I now know that they were reckless in teaching us about these things. They didn’t tell us that we don’t un-smell, un-see, un-touch and un-know all these things we endeavor to experience, that once you know something with your finger tips and retinas and tongue and lungs, it’s there for good.

There’s a gray knit shawl collar cardigan laying on my desk chair that smells like her, and it makes me smile. There’s a pair of sweatpants in my closet that used to smell like him, but I washed and washed and washed them until the Polo #3 went away. There’s the scent of a stranger on a t-shirt, a narcotic perfume.

Somehow, colognes and pheromones conspire in a trompe l’œil as maligned particles conjure phantoms and familiars.

An addendum to the lesson: close your eyes, hold your breath, and keep the ghosts away.