Scentless

How much do you remember?

My mother told me about the candy I used to hoard as a toddler and how I hid in the stairwell behind the pot plant so that I could eat my candy without being caught or having to share. I don’t remember that part, but 25 years later when I went back to that apartment block where I’d lived until I was three, I recognised the smell of that stairwell immediately.

I stood in the street and closed my eyes and the memories came flooding back. The hedge by the big cement bin holders which had little white flowers that we used to pluck and jump on. They were filled with air and would reward us with tiny little popping sounds. The cement bin holder itself that we’d climb up on and pretend we were giants. The little playground across the street that in my memories was so much larger given that I was so much smaller when I last saw it.

We left there and I remember the years we lived in Western Samoa with similar clarity. I remember sitting on the pools edge and watching my sister and brother swim. I remember desperately wanting to jump in and finally doing so. I remember my brother goading me from the shallows telling me just how lovely it was, but reminding me that I wasn't allowed in without Mum. We argued:

You’ll get in trouble

No I won’t

Mum will smack you

Soooo

Go on then, I dare you

Alright then, I will …

And plop, in I went. My brother instinctively moved toward me, but I was already doggy paddling and although I stayed in the shallows I was pleased to know that I could swim with the big kids now.

It’s funny the things I remember. The smells that revive my memories like electric shocks. Cinnamon and Ginger suddenly remind me of candles on trees and snow on the streets. Perfume that I wore at the end of a bad break-up and the memories that make me furrow my brow and shake my head in an attempt to forget.

And then there are the ones I love the most that strangely have no aroma at all. Those that I’ve spent a life time with and too many days without, but whose memories come to me in words and actions rather than wafts of scent. They are the ones I need no prompts to remember. They are scentless because they are me. They are my life.

Inhaling you.

We met for the first time under the arches of London Bridge. You were wearing a red t-shirt and a sweet smile and I hid behind large sunglasses and suddenly forgot how to breathe. I remember taking in your broad chest, strong shoulders and boys swagger and all I wanted to do was climb into your arms and inhale you.

We walked into the club and let our friends do the talking. I stood back and leant against a chair in the office while the terms of our fund raiser were negotiated and stole secret glances at you. You smiled at me and I wanted to trace the dimple on your cheek with my fingers.

After the meeting we went to the pub by the river for a drink. I liked the way you laughed and wanted to close my eyes and listen to the deep tones of your voice as you shared your stories. I remember thinking how beautiful you looked from the soft lines of your neck all the way down to the perfect masculine shape of your hands. I loved the way your eyes lit up every time you smiled and wondered how it would feel to have your arms wrapped tightly around me.

You caught the train that day although we invited you to share a cab and I pushed you from my mind and convinced my self that age and sense had made me cleverer than to fall for the imaginings of a bewitched mind.

Some times I remember those first moments and can still feel the butterflies in my belly. The excitement of knowing you will be somewhere still fills me with giddiness bubbling up from my belly and making me fingertips tingle. We fell in love on the dirt tracks across Uganda and I spend my days watching you smile and tracing the soft line of your dimple. I listen to you laugh and it warms my soul just as much as closing my eyes to absorb the tones of your voice does. I climb into your arms everyday and inhale you and I can’t imagine a time when I won’t want to do that anymore.