Fiction

Fake Pine

Last night, he smelled of pine

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He smells different today. Last night, he smelled of fresh air and pine, reminding me of the mountaintop where Daddy took me as a child.

“Breathe in deep,” Daddy would say, leading me through the silent clearing, our steps too loud for all that quiet. We’d stop at the very top, just able to spot the mountains peeking above the trees. Using my full chest, I’d inhale, greedily sucking air through my nostrils. The freshness overwhelmed my small frame, making my bones feel soft as jelly. My head grew light and loopy until everything didn’t look quite right. It looked better.

It took longer, but the freshness got to Daddy too. Quietly, Daddy would hum, his brown boots tapping the grass. Eventually, the trees would join in, the breeze and rustling leaves creating a bassline for his off-tune melody. With each passing minute, the hum grew louder until we could no longer resist the song. Daddy swung me in circles until we blurred together with the trees and mountains, becoming nothing more than pale smudges in a vortex of fresh air and pine.

Last night, he smelled like that. But today, the freshness is gone, replaced by something else. His scent, once dizzying, now feels nauseating — an artificial sweetness that clogs my nostrils. He reminds me of those little green…