Scents of Growth, by Iris Hanlin

The first thing I vividly remember is the smell of Clorox tickling my young nose, and the light scent of freshly washed linen in which my mother’s frail frame was clad. The smell of antiseptic faded into lemon cakes, scented candles, and laundry detergent as my brother and I were shuffled from one relative’s home to another.

No, my mother was not dead, but her long stay at the House of Medicine drew bills my father needed to pay, and we were far too young to stay home alone. The harsh result came from one doctor’s mistake–one he refused to admit, because then, of course, he would have had to hand over a few of those cotton-smelling bills. So, antiseptic faded into the smells of homes, and we eagerly awaited my mother’s homecoming. It came eventually, with the familiar scent of cedar wood shavings, remnants of my father’s work on his clothes, and an ugly green mixture my mother was to drink twice a day–it smelled of uncooked broccoli and Dramamine.

 

It took a while for normality to return to our lives. The smells of used school textbooks melded with the chilled autumn air, and eventually our lives settled down enough to watch the seasons begin to fly by. Nick and I attended a summer camp for three consecutive years, from sixth grade onward, and the smell of pine trees, bonfires, and lake moss will forever be dear to our hearts. High school sped on with the smell of incense from the church where our classes were held, and the stale halls of university corridors surround us now.

Now, my days are filled with the scent of ink and paper, dogs, cats, and horses, the fresh plastic tile of my film studio, the well-loved smell of used books lining the walls of my office, and a hint of the oil in my typewriter (yes, typewriter) wafting through the air.