(from Brainstorms) I can still smell my grandmother’s perfume on one of the sweaters that I kept. Fourteen years later and I remember lying on your bed in the mornings while you drank coffee and juice and smoked your morning cigarette. You found the streak in the back of my hair, a golden shimmer in a sea of brown that no one else had noticed. I can find it when the angle is right, and I feel like a little girl again. Sometimes I want to pick up the phone, to call you just to hear your voice respond to my question: “What’s new, Tia?” “New York, New Jersey, and New Mexico.” “And don’t forget New Haven.” We sat together in the hospital room. I held your hand as the doctor explained. I understood your reasons. Even as I wanted you to hold on, you knew that the time for healing had passed. You lay in your bed back home, and asked me to get you a pound of chocolate-covered marshmallows, of fresh bing cherries, and a carton of cigarettes. “I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do.” You said those words that echo in my core. I can still smell my grandmother’s perfume, reminding me that life is not about regrets.