Making peace with grief (and guilt)

Author’s photo of her father

Yesterday, I felt my dad’s presence. I heard his gentle whistle. And I smelled a light waft of his cologne.

Can the brain conjure scent?

It was a soft breeze brushing against my arm, reminding me that I’ll be OK.

I envisioned him pushing his glasses up his nose with his wise, yet snarky stare as if to say … what are you waiting for?