I was mocked throughout school for my father’s job as a garbage collector. On graduation day, I said something unforgettable.
By the time I turned eighteen, my memory of childhood was less about events and more about scent. I could navigate the corridors of my past through smell alone. The sharp tang of diesel fumes that clung to my mother’s neon vest, the bleach-soaked floor of our small apartment kitchen, the sour, almost living odor…