It smells like a fresh cleaned carpet, and water lilies on a casket at ten in the morning.  As you frantically try not to step on someone's resting place, but in hysteria you trampled it.
It smells like rubbing alcohol, and freshly polish furniture in a little funeral home, it's hot and stuffy and the closest, cheapest place to fit into your budget.
It smells like the summer air at two in the morning, the asphalt is cool and the ground around you reeks of vodka, the word gets around that you're suicidal thoughts kept you company until the very end.
It smells like burning cookies in April; her grandchildren are coming over. The neighbors call 911, but they won't find a fire. They won't find her in time.