Scent

Herself speaks.

My parents continue to downsize their possessions as they have moved into a "senior living" facility. (They still have their independence, which they guard fiercely; yet they also have More Help nearby. It is a comfort to me, since I am 2,000 miles away and cannot be immediately on hand should they be in need.)

Mom asked me whether I'd like a bedspread and matching decorative pillow cases that they used to have in a guest room. She couldn't bear to just casually give them away, she said; she wanted to be sure that they went to a good home since she is so fond of them. I accepted her offer. I did not need them, for my house is Quite Full of all the things; nevertheless, I knew they were pretty, and I thought that it would somehow be a comfort to Mom, who is, despite a brave face, a bit sad about moving.

When I opened the box that arrived in the mail a week later, it contained not only the bedspread and pillow cases, but the scent of my parents' house.

Ah. I hadn't realized how much I've missed seeing them. I'll arrange a visit soon.

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When Cherished Friend was here this past weekend, he brought some laundry. (I am glad he brings his laundry; I try to counterbalance the onus of the drive here by ensuring that he is well fed and has all the household amenities available to him. Besides, chores like laundry are always better if they are running in the background of something more more satisfying, such as a game of Scrabble.)

And as I walked through the laundry area to fetch something from the garage, there it was: the scent of his house.

Alas. It is always bittersweet to know he is here for only a short visit.

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I occasionally joke that in the event of the Zombie Apocalypse, I will be one of the first people to die because I am not remotely visually observant: those Zombies would probably be able walk right up to me without me noticing until it was far too late. The truth is: I don't see things easily. I find it very difficult to identify the bird or airplane or lizard or whatever it is other people spot so quickly; I sometimes don't realize that things are right there in front of me. It's not a lack of vision (my eyes work fine with glasses) - it's a lack of seeing. I have always been this way.

It has occurred to me, though, that if the Apocalypse Zombies smelled (and likely they would -- what with that rotting deadness and all), I would in fact do extremely well. As clueless as I am to sights, I am extremely sensitive to scents.

I can smell all the small things. A single scent can dredge up memories from long ago, and I can recall exactly where I first encountered the smell: the soap in my grandparents' house in North Carolina; the biscuits at summer camp when I was eight; the aroma of the rental car when we went to Disney World; the shampoo I used in college.

I encounter all the little aromas on a daily basis, too. I know if there are bicycle tires or plastic lawn furniture for sale in a store as soon as I walk in. I can immediately discern when someone nearby has crossed from "pleasant musk" to "pungent armpit." Sometimes a smell alone -- raw onion, cocoa powder -- will give me a headache. And I am an expert at identifying when food begins to go bad.

I have always been this way. Furthermore, I like being this way, for all it takes is the echo of a scent to take me back -- to a moment, a person, a feeling of happiness. And when I catch such a scent, wherever it may be, I am comforted.

Old Dog, hard of hearing and sight, also relies on smell.