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.
You've got such evocative details here, Iris. I've never read anything that covered a whole lifetime (so far) just through the sense of smell. So creative!
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