Dad.

I still get goosebumps when I ring up flowers at work. Certain ones (I'm not even sure what type of flowers these even are) smell exactly the same way as the room my father's funeral was in. This is sick, I know, and I almost feel insane for nearly coming to tears in front of these people, buying these flowers; excited to go home and give them to their wives, who will most likely grab them and the first thing they will do is take a deep breath and let this scent that haunts me happily consume them. I smell these as I scan the plastic tag around the stems though and for a split second I see myself peering over a casket, staring at the body my beautiful dad once lived in, surrounded by all these living flowers. The view of his eyelids that are now shut forever and his body in that suit I never even saw him wear are enough to knock me off my feet but in just one second it passes and I can "feel" my hand touching my customer's next item: a small tomato, a bag of apples, a box of their favorite cereal, but I really can't feel a thing.