I press my face into his warm, muscular neck and inhale deeply of his fragrant life. I am instantly transported to another time and place, returned momentarily to a slow, romantic kitchen dance, or a hiding place when the world is overwhelming, the crook of tender love and unfettered passion. I find this crevice to be the safest, most familiar place I know, and I linger.
As I bury my face deeper, beyond the scratchy collar of his black nylon jacket and stubble chin, past the soft hood of his sweatshirt and down to the warm, smooth skin of his neck, my nostrils flare at the pungent aroma of something well known and, something only vaguely familiar. I raise my head tilting it to the right thoughtfully and then I begin to grin. "Garlic and. . . kerosene." I say triumphantly as I bury my cheeks back in, inhaling deeply one more time. He laughs and asks, "How do you always know?"
I play a mystery game each evening when my beloved arrives, the events of his entire day in tow. Cedar, pine, caulk or tar, diesel, two stroke oil, bonfire, coffee and the occasional cigar. Brown skin salty on my lips, once sticky from a day spent in the sun and blown dry by the gentle lake breeze. Freshly mowed grass, autumn leaves, barn aroma and the dirt of the earth. Fragrances once so foreign to me and at first somewhat offensive have now become seasoned with familiarity. Evidence of a work born out of love and desire, and the innate need to be a man and provide for his family.
Wherever his day has led him becomes a puzzle for me to solve and I realize as he comes through the door, tired from a long days work, and takes me into his arms, that it is I who have arrived safely at home.
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