Crossing the Ladue Reservoir, I catch the musky scent of a bonfire through the open windows. Memories rush in behind the smoke. Bonfires have been good to me; one provided the backdrop for my first kiss, others for long talks with great friends, some the solitary comfort of a clear summer night.  I remember these well, they have stuck with me, like smoke to clothes. Sometimes two or three washes aren’t enough to erase the smell and even then, anytime a fire is kindled it returns, just like memories. But what about when I let Andrea borrow my jacket by the fire, when Mom complained the smoke would eat at her wool coat on the next hook over, but the inside smelled like Andrea so I refused to wash it. She never borrowed my jacket again and before long I would never see her again. One day I couldn’t smell her anymore. Will that happen to my memory?