Rachel May







"We decided to make the most of our last three days with scent and taste, and we went on eating binges, and drank thousand dollar bottles of wine, and stuffed our noses into lilies and into our spouses’ hair and into their bodies. We smelled the rain and the sun and the dirt and the pizza and the steak. We smelled the eggs and the fresh apples and the baked apples and the smoke from the fires we made at night. We smelled everything, and we smelled everything so hard that, although we did not know it, the smells traveled up into our brains in little tiny particles, and rested there, in little compartments labeled “lilies,” and “pizza,” and “Jackie, my wife’s body,” and “Larry’s running socks.” We began to realize that we would miss even the bad smells, and we smelled those, too. Rotten eggs, old coffee rinds, house paint. Everything. The trash, the grass, each other’s feet.

Three days later, there we were, before the deer. And they put on their surgical masks and scrubbed into the surgery room..."

- from The Experiments: A Legend in Words & Pictures, forthcoming Dusie Press (2015)