Redolence

Failure has a smell.

Failure smells like generic disinfectant that doesn’t quite mask an underlying aroma of rotten food and stale beer.

It's the stink of dirty laundry, clothes piled in a bedroom corner, sunlight warming them through the blinds.

Failure is the smell of cheap liquor so strong that I flinch and recoil the instant I open the bottle.

It’s the odor permeating the dining room at a homeless shelter; the smell I’m almost sure isn’t coming from me.

Failure is the fragrant scent of Confederate Jasmine pointing out that I’m sitting in the moonlight alone.

It's the freshly shampooed hair of the girl in the seat ahead of me whispering how long it’s been since I was that young.

Failure is a wallet that smells like anything but new bills.

It’s that card you sent me years ago; the one from which I can no longer catch even the faintest hint of your perfume.