Smell

Smells. I have a particular part of my memories that are linked directly to smells. Kim's the same way. Makes it nice. Scientists say that we store our first memories through smells. We must because we have no knowledge of language yet. There are times that I smell something, I can't place what it is exactly, but very definite emotions grip me. Sometimes even physical reactions. I can concentrate and smell things from memory.

I remember the smell of the nursery at Pathway Baptist Church. I was three. Very definite smell. Kinda musty. When I smell that smell, I can see the black and white linoleum, the pictures on the walls, the plastic rocking horse, the old ceramic sink in the bathroom. Feel the sensation of seeing my mother at the door after a separation of hours. The elation. The absolute joy. It was like I had forgotten her and then there she was. Looking for me. Smiling at me. Reaching to pick me up.

I remember the smell of my mother. Light, powdery, sweet. The smell was most potent on her neck. I remember laying my head on her shoulder as she carried me. I can see the freckles on her neck. Hear the hum of her voice in her throat. See her hands. A few months ago in Dollar General, I caught her scent. Stopped me dead in my tracks. I scooped Gracie up and asked if she could smell it. "That's what Bubbe smelled like Gracie. That's her smell." And just that quickly, it was gone.

I remember the smell of my godfather, Mike. He wore cologne or musk. When he would come visit, Kim and I would sleep in the den and he would sleep in my bed. (bottom bunk) When he left, I would beg Mother not to change my pillowcase. He smelled like laughter and fun. His eyes were bright blue and he had fluffy hair. (It was 1978.) He drove a motorcycle and married a woman who looked like a tree frog. I have no idea what happened to him.

I remember the smell of Chris when we first kissed. He smelled like man. Warm, strong, tentative, gentle.

I remember the smell of the house my mother died in. Misery, blood, death, decay. It makes me see it again. Kim and I would chew Trident Tropical gum to block some of the smell. Now the smell of that gum is ever connected to that place. Pain.

I remember the smell of Brendan's cloth diapers that he slept with like a security blanket. Liquid Lysol, fabric softener. I can remember standing next to his baby bed, watching him sleep. I remember feeding him his first baby food. I remember falling asleep with him in my arms. Playing peek-a-boo with his cloth diaper. Mother called it his 'ether diaper' because as soon as you put it to his face, out he went. Lovely.

I remember the smell of our first apartment. My first place of my own.

I remember the smell of my grandmother's green, fake leather couch. The seat lifted up and you could keep coloring books under it.

I remember waking up at my Granny's house smelling her homemade biscuits baking. And she was always singing or humming. I remember watching my PaPa eat the biscuits by sopping up some kind of dark syrup.

I remember the smell of my Aunt Pam. Clorox and ammonia. Very clean.

I'm reminded of the Scripture that says "We are the aroma of Christ to God." That's 2 Cor. 2:15. My footnote says, "That we are a sweet aroma to God means that He delights in us and in our lives." I am connected to God in every way. He sees me. He hears me. He smells me.

I am resting. Lying back in His arms, breathing Him in. He loves me. He is drawing me to Himself, changing me. He enjoys being with me.

Will we smell in heaven? What does God smell like? Is it a smell you can taste? A smell that evokes emotion? A smell that completes every other smell? Oh, I can't wait. If heaven smells anything like my Mother, my Granny's homemade biscuits and my husband... well... I'll have died and gone to heaven.