Scent of a Memory
I was walking down an unfamiliar street in an unfamiliar neighbourhood when I was struck with a familiar scent, and, with that scent, everything came flooding back. Burnt eggs tickled my nose and dragged back the past I fought to forget.
I was seven again, crying the kitchen. Toast burned unnoticed on the stove behind me. Violent words were shot at each other above my head. My uncle was visiting for the first time in five years.
I don’t remember the first time I met him, I was two and he was on his way to prison, on his goodbye tour before leaving the stage of freedom. He’s always been tall, and, when I was seven, he seemed like a giant. A huge mass towering above me, blocking out the sun’s shine.
I was relieved when he left, but my mother shut herself in her room and cried. It took all my father’s coaxing to untangle her from her web of toxic thoughts. She held me tight and made me promise to never become like my uncle. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I hoped saying the words would make her stop crying, so I said them. I said them again and again and again. But her tears didn’t stop.
It wasn’t till much later that I realized nothing could have stopped her leaking eyes or her torturous grief. There was something broken in her head and in her heart that no one could fix. I used to think it would have been better had my uncle never come back. Realistically, it wouldn’t have changed anything. His return only threw some gas onto an already ignited bonfire. It would have consumed itself regardless. I didn’t realize that at the time either. At her funeral, he was the sole target of my blame.
I was twelve when my mother took her own life. It would be a lie if I claim to have ever fully recovered from it. For years, I channelled my anger at my uncle, and, when he eventually died in a bar fight, I felt it was divine judgement.
His death didn’t help anything in the end. After I heard the news, I only felt hollow. The hole in my chest had not been filled or sated. If anything, it grew, spreading bitterness and anger.
I found help. I learned to let go. I tried to move on with my life.
It’s strange how a scent can bring it all back, returning me to that time and that mentality and that poison.
Did you know the strongest memories are those of scent? You’ll always remember a smell and you’ll always connect it with memories. Your nose is the lock to a time capsule, and it snaps opens whether you’d like it to or not.
I can't keep eggs in my house or order them at restaurants. I can't keep daisies around either. They were my mother’s favourite flower and they covered every inch of her funeral. I can't watch movies where mothers cry.
With each day, I slowly stitch new triggers to my list of can'ts, cutting them from my life with the efficiency of a guillotine. More than half the list are items I can't smell. The memories are too much. Regressing hurts too much.
549 words - May 2017