Here’s a piece to give you a little taste of how I write. Let me know what you think.
We all have certain things from our childhoods that we remember with a crystal clarity. One of mine is that I can smell my father as he used to smell when I was a boy, the fecund floral fragrance of Borkum Riff Cherry Pipe Tobacco permeating his skin, his sweat, his breath, his clothing and overridden by MFC, his aftershave tonic. I smelled it when he kissed me goodnight, or when he held 
me close to him to help me overcome pain or fear, but most often of all, and most significantly to me, I smelled his smell when he would lay with me on my bed or on the sofa and read to me. It was more often my mother who read to us, to me, and so I remember those times when he did it and remember the comfort of smelling that smell, because it was my time with my dad, alone, having to share him with no one.