nothing

my nose

was born empty.

and when the air

finally learned

to travel

through tubes set up by doctors

and finally entered my lungs

it did not bring with it

the sensation

of scent.

even as i grew

and learned to breathe on my own,

i never smelled

christmas cookies

or bacon frying in the pan.

i remember once, in kindergarten,

the teacher lined up a row of spices.

cinnamon, pepper, salt, and

god knows what else.

she asked us to tell her

what we smelled

and i could not answer.

by grade school,

it became

a joke,

a running gag,

forgotten about until it was

convenient to mention again.

i'd have to remind my friends

when they asked me if i liked

their perfume.

once, my mother lit a scented candle outside my room,

and asked me if it smelled okay.

there was a long silence

and then the two of us burst into laughter.

i don't miss the scent of childhood,

because i never knew it.

i don't mind bad breath

because i'd never notice it.

i'd prefer to dwell on

my strengths:

i'll never wince when cleaning

my cat's litter box.

i never minded

high school dissections.

i'll never shy away

when a dog licks my face

in greeting.

my nose

was born empty.

but i can still

breathe.