Smelling my memories

I was cycling back home this afternoon, under the usual Dutch rain, covered all over with my red poncho and all in a while I smelt it... as if I were there, in that old house, something like three years ago. i smelt the smoky smell of the oven, which left still some traces on my poncho. That smoky night with my great cousin, that is somehow a miracle we are alive. Lost in the mountains, me, her under the milky way... besides not knowing that well how the oven was working. And we slept with all the windows opened, up on the mountain with a crazily cold temperature. But the smoke is still there. I don't know how many times my mum and I washed it and how many other times I wore it. It's there and it's there to let me remember.
As when I'm somewhere and I start to think about a particular smell already smelt in Istanbul, or somewhere else, or the smell of the moulded grass, which always reminds me about my home and my dad.
And I smiled... I ask myself if it is fine to think about that, and to associate smells with places, people I met and remember... for sure it is scientifically prooved, but I want to give it a more emotional shape.
The problem comes later, when the smell disappears and you start thinking, maybe too much as somebody suggested me once, about BEFORE.
All I want to learn is to find new smells, but inevitably they'll be old memories soon or later as well.
What counts now, it's to go on.
For me.
I'm fine... you know that sometimes I need to express what it's turning constantly in my mind.
Good night then!
Buona notte!
Eli