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Last night I dreamt of my dead grandmother. 
It was a deam within a dream, as it always is.
I saw her but something was different. She wasn’t how she was before-sick and paper thin, and medical drain in her neck. She was younger, smaller, whole-er. 
One thing about my grandmother was that she had a very distinctive aroma. It was a smell of her perfume and cleaning supplies and freshly washed linen and warmth. Her whole house smelled of it and that smell has occupied a  very important place in my heart since her death. 
The first time I dreamed of her, she was with the cantor at my synagogue, who I don't think she had ever even met in life. He was in a tuxedo and she was dressed in a linen button down and slacks. She was sick, in this dream, the way she was in the last three or so years of her life. She hugged me and I began to cry. Her smell was not there. In the dream, I wondered why. When I woke up, I told my dad, king of supernatural experiences involving my deceased relatives. He’s generally very skeptical but in this arena he believes. And I guess I do too.
Last night when I dreamed of her she smelled strongly of lemons, the way furniture polish does. I didn’t like it one bit.