Grandpa's little girl

Each time we embrace our cheeks brush up against the others and his scent leaves a distinct mark. When I was a little girl, he would swoop me off my feet and gather me into his arms and say “dance with me, my little girl.” I’d accept his offer as I let out a sheepish giggle. I was rather uncoordinated and clumsy, and soon, he caught on and placed my feet upon his and we’d take off, gliding along the linoleum that covered the kitchen floor. He loved to twirl me and dip me, all the while, my legs are flopping this way and that in mid-air. He was strong. After a while, he stopped asking me to dance. Not because he didn’t want to anymore, but because I had gotten older and I’m sure he figured that I’d be reluctant to partake in our childish endeavors. But he still hugs me and kisses me on the cheek whenever I see him. I look forward to those times because it brings me back to our memories that we created on the “dance floor”. He still smells the same; his scent clings to my skin, devouring any previous aromas that were once so pronounced. I get reminded that it is there when I turn my head or flip my hair; it comes wafting back. I don’t want that smell to diminish. It is the one strongest scent I can remember all the way back into my childhood days.