On a high school band trip, the scent of roses was so strong on the band bus that I commented about it aloud; however, no one else around me could smell them. A couple of weeks later on the regular school bus, I sat by a classmate, Robin, whose boyfriend had recently passed away in an accident. Again, I smelled those roses. Our bus route drove on dirt roads by pastures, so smelling roses was unexplainable. Robin was telling me about her boyfriend’s fatal accident and said that whenever she spoke of him, she could smell the roses that were the flowers across his casket. I told her I smelled the roses too and asked if she was talking about her boyfriend on the band trip. She was. Robin and I weren’t really friends, and I didn’t know her boyfriend, so I wasn’t sure why I could smell those roses too. But—as afraid as I am of ghosts—roses remain very divine to me.