Books.

Books hold memories.

Some books smell of cigarette smoke, and lingering behind it, leather and deep brown-red mahogany. They smell of homespun tales and suspenders and thick glasses, of white hair and deep, belly laughter. They smell of hastily bookmarking the page so that the grandchildren won't read it--they're too young for that kind of thing, anyway.

Some books have sand stuck in the dust jackets. I can imagine the salt spray that made them feel sticky not too long ago. They make me want to have my feet in the sand with the ocean in my line of vision. They make me long for summer and hot air and sunscreen and still-wet towels. They make me want to dive into their chapters and let the words rush over me till the sounds of the ocean fade away.

Some books have flowery pink covers and, if designs had smells, they would smell like strawberries. I imagine sweet tea and eyes misty from the love contained in their pages, read in a rocking chair with knitting needles somewhere nearby. Sugar cookies are baking and the aroma permeates the pages.

Some books smell of sweat and outside, and lingering behind it, exhaustion and distraction. They smell of lounging on the couch, oblivious to the stains now on the couch. They smell of lawnmowers and fresh grass and dirt. Images fill my mind, of a tongue barely sticking out in anticipation of what the next page holds. These books smell of adrenaline from the thriller, and apologies and kisses to make up for the stains on the couch.