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The seven-year-old was putting the neatly folded clothes in the wardrobe when a sudden instinct put her action to a halt,
she held a cuff of a shirt hung from the hanger and sniffed it in through her tiny nose;
"Close enough!"
She shuffled for another shirt.
"Mhmm hmm", she scrunched her eyebrows in judgement,
"Nope, not this one either
So over washed!
and definitely smells entirely
of detergent"
"Let us try this another one here!
It's my favourite!
Mhmmmmm!
Perfect!
This one smells like Papa!"
The joy in her eyes then turned sombre as she spoke to herself,
"I wonder when papa will be back home,
soldiers do come back home from wars, do not they?"
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«Author's note: Do our clothes really smell of us? Even when all washed with detergents and washing powder? Aren't they supposed to just smell of the perfume we put on?
Do we humans really have a scent of our own?
That only the ones who love us can smell of?
Or maybe it's just our love for them that we smell from their worn clothes. »»
YOU ARE READING
into her phenakistoscope
Poetry«« when her life was at a halt , an illusion of motion was created and in her dreamlike state , her reality and her imagination met and gave her a blurred vision , her phantasmagoria took birth where her soul saw dreams of a...
