Before work I carried a double armful of laundry down the stairs, trying to catch up on chores that need to be done after work.

My father came home from work tired when I was young. He was a surveyor, and I remember looking at the mud caked on his boots from the miles he walked through the swampy new-broken Texas land. I would give him a hug…I remember stretching my arms around his chest. He was a god-like figure, powerful and strong; I’d press my face against his damp shirt.

Scent and memory are linked. Pressed against my face this morning was my shirt from earlier in the week, and flooding across my mind unbidden were the memories of my Dad: my shirt smelled like him, not me. It’s not a great smell, stress and exhaustion and sweat… and it’s a scary thing to be your father. I’m not him. I sometimes forget that I’m an adult at all; I certainly don’t see myself as the strong figure I saw in him. I know he had his doubts, his desire to deny adulthood. But he worked hard. Maybe we are a bit the same.