For My Father

More than
anything else,
scientists say,
smell
is good
for time travel.
I knew this
to be true
when last week
sweet and sudden,
the scent
of pipe tobacco,
now a rare smell,
to be sure,
danced its way
through
my olfactory
sensors
and triggered
the earliest memories
of my youngest,
tenderest
years.
The almost forgotten
beginnings of me
were nurtured by
the smell of
Erinmore
rising
from my father’s pipe.
I would watch
the smoke
wind and curl
a path

between us.
It was the
holy incense
of my earliest
days.
An outward
sign
of the grace
he gave me,
a gift
of attention
marked with time.
A treasure
to last
me all of my days:
I
was a daughter
loved
by her father
and that
has made
all
the difference.