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Smell: Citrus

Scents Memory

“Those pancakes are burning! Can’t you smell them?” 

In fact I cannot, as my mate well knows. Ditto garlic sizzling in hot sesame oil, and spice cake just out of the oven. Likewise the Mexican marigolds in the garden, their foliage bruised by a tossing wind, and the cold, wet-cardboard smell of a rare rainy day. Too the cedarn atmosphere within a stand of redwoods—my favorite fragrance—and the aura of heat blowing in from the east: a Mississippi of air.

I savor these only in memory. My sense of smell faded about a decade ago, a sign (I found out later) of progressing Parkinson’s disease. It was a loss so gradual and unobtrusive that I didn’t notice until the sense was quite gone. Because they’re so closely linked, my sense of taste is crippled as well: I can detect only saltiness, sweetness, or the burn of capsaicin (which causes the heat you feel when eating chili peppers, and which I’m not even sure is a flavor). The smell and taste sensations appear to me as phantoms—brain-invented illusions without basis or cause—in the most incongruous situations. Lingering in bed in the morning, dozing and waking in short cycles, I’ll catch the salty splatter of bay water and the sinus-stinging smoke from cheap gas churning in the violent wake of the ski boat my family had when I was a teenager. Working the odorless decomposed granite that answers for soil in my vegetable plot, my mouth waters from the smell of popping corn or the taste of hot chocolate.

It’s hard not to be bitter over what I’ve lost: two-fifths of my interface with the world (though, being honest, I’d rather live without taste and smell than sight and hearing). I try to focus on and be grateful for the mechanism, whatever it is, that still allows me to relish the greasy aroma of fat rendered from browning bacon, or the sharp, astringent perfume of lavender soap, even if the former comes during a performance of act two of La Boheme and the latter while driving to the DMV to renew my license. Most of all I treasure the odd, disorienting moments when my senses suddenly return, and I breathe in the incense of the week-old garbage I’m carrying out to the bin. Seconds later, my burden is again odorless, blank as ice, and my memory book one glorious, fragrant chapter richer.

- Jim Brega


The smells along the way to school

On the way to school... The smell of musty plastic from the heater running in the 1970 alfa romeo and the burn on my toes as it finally began to come alive. The smell of my mothers hairspray in her freshly curled and coiffed '80s doo mingling with her french perfume as she dropped me off in front of the school... the scent strongest when she kissed me before I slid out of my seat, invariably touched by pink lipstick. The scent of plastic again, this time the scooby doo thermos lid I drank my orange juice from after quickly gobbling a granola bar before the bell rang. It's amazing how, working through scent, my mind clears and shows me memories I doubt I could have found searching through time or any other filter... man, I miss that thermos.

- Lauren


Crayons

Sunshine streams cross the table
Home sick from school, I sit alone
Mouth filled with tart and tangy orange taste 
baby aspirin slowly melting
Box of crayons spread before me
All the colors just for me
Blues from day to midnight dark
Greens from lawns to sea
Intoxicating waxy smell entices
No need to share or squabble 
A remembrance like a lovely painting
Contented child lit by sunshine, 
Waxy crayons and perfection.

- Mary Anita WINKLEA