Fuel

I filled the car today

and the smell opened a door

I've been keeping locked.

The nozzle clicked off.

I smelled it—

that specific burn,

that chemical precision,

that year I'm not supposed to remember.

You filled the car.

I sat in the passenger seat

and watched your hands

do the thing

that my hands do now,

alone.

The smell is the same.

Exactly the same.

The way it hits the back of the throat,

the way it makes your eyes water,

the way it's inside you

before you can stop it.

I stood there at the pump

and your hands were there,

muscle memory,

the shape of someone else's competence,

the weight of being passenger,

of letting someone else

handle the fuel,

the car,

the direction.

The smell won't leave my clothes.

It's in my hair.

It's in my sinuses,

and it brings you back

like you never left,

like you're still here

doing the things I do now,

watching me

from wherever you are,

seeing me finally understand

what I was too young

to see then.

I drove away.

The smell stayed.

It always stays.