That Same Smell Follows Me

My kids tease me every Thanksgiving, both for my collection of air-fresheners and for hoarding all the leftovers, but they don’t understand—it was passed down from my Grandpa. Just like I do now, he’d grin and say, “Leave it here; I’ll put them to good use.” I had to have been about ten when I left my Gameboy inside after everyone else had gone. The door was unlocked, so I slipped back in, calling, “Just grabbin' somethin', Grandpa!” He didn’t respond—just a low, heavy breathing drifted up from the basement. Curious, I crept down the stairs, surprised to find it too, unlocked; it was never unlocked. The smell hit me first, sour and putrid, like spoiled meat. At the bottom of the stairs, I froze. Grandpa was sprawled out naked, lying on a mound of rotting turkey skins. Stuffing, congealed gravy and slick tendons, all piled up into his throne, how did he get so much of it? His eyes were half-lidded and his chest rose and fell with peaceful breaths. I backed away with my stomach churning. That memory forever seared itself into my mind as I quietly slipped out of the house and into my parent’s car. My mom looked back at me, "What's that smile for?" she asked. That same smell follows me now, but I’ve made sure to buy more than one lock.