nothing
my nose
was born empty.
and when the air
finally learned
to travel
through tubes set up by doctors
and finally entered my lungs
it did not bring with it
the sensation
of scent.
even as i grew
and learned to breathe on my own,
i never smelled
christmas cookies
or bacon frying in the pan.
i remember once, in kindergarten,
the teacher lined up a row of spices.
cinnamon, pepper, salt, and
god knows what else.
she asked us to tell her
what we smelled
and i could not answer.
by grade school,
it became
a joke,
a running gag,
forgotten about until it was
convenient to mention again.
i'd have to remind my friends
when they asked me if i liked
their perfume.
once, my mother lit a scented candle outside my room,
and asked me if it smelled okay.
there was a long silence
and then the two of us burst into laughter.
i don't miss the scent of childhood,
because i never knew it.
i don't mind bad breath
because i'd never notice it.
i'd prefer to dwell on
my strengths:
i'll never wince when cleaning
my cat's litter box.
i never minded
high school dissections.
i'll never shy away
when a dog licks my face
in greeting.
my nose
was born empty.
but i can still
breathe.