Does it smell familiar?

It's been five years, but I can still smell his tobacco in my dreams. He never was the most considerate of men.

I'm still eating off the plates we bought together, and I still add extra paprika to his favorite dishes, like his odious mother insisted I do. These are the things that I am far too accustomed to, and will not change.

His shirts are still in the closet; I wash them every few months. His kippot are on the shelf next to the smaller tallis. The larger one, well, you know. Occasionally one of the members of his shul calls, especially around rosh hashana. I've had more contact with them since then than while he was still around.
His friend Aaron called this morning. I can't remember Aaron's face. But his voice comforts me. Sort of. He mentioned the smell of the pipe. That's why.