Here I am, waiting until it's time to walk over to my first class of the second semester and smelling the odor emanating from Blueberry, the little 80s-vintage doll that was stuffed into my suitcase at the last moment by Dad, accomplice of Subcontinent and Mother of Subcontinent.
The doll has been finding its way between our houses for the last six or so years. Sometimes it can't be found, and my bad dusting habits are outed. Still, I could have sworn it was nowhere in my house, despite being told repeatedly that it was, when all of a sudden I was pulling it out of my shoe, wrapped in a plastic bag.
I smelled her before I saw her. Blueberry once, I have no doubt, smelled of chemical blueberries, now that odor has mingled with one of aging plastic and one of old toys repeatedly thrust into dark corners of houses to be discovered months later.
Right now she's sitting between Baby Bunny and Waddles and staring at me, accusatory, from across a sea of toiletries.
I can't wait to go to class. She's watching me.