Scents Memory
11/14/13 09:53
Lilacs remind me of my mother. My mom cannot smell, but when she could, her favorite scent was lilacs.
She's a practical woman, my mother. She may miss smelling flowers or tasting food, but ask her if she does, and you'd likely receive little more than a wry grin, and a handwave, and acceptance of her fate. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept, etc., etc.
But I find it harder to accept things. So every time I pass lilacs in bloom, no matter how hurried I am, I try to remember to stop, to lean in, to bring the cones full of heady little flowers close, and to breathe deep.
I like the smell of lilacs. I love my mom, but we had few things to connect us beyond the normal responsibilities of mother and son, and precious few topics of conversation, so even something as trivial as a love for lilacs was something I grasped at, desperately. So because they were her favorite, they're now my favorite as well. And I know from personal experience, that smells do not last in the memory the way sights and sounds or even tastes do.
No matter how many times I have smelled lilacs, when they are gone, I can't remember it. I can remember the pleasure of it, the words I would have used to describe it when I was smelling it. But I only truly remember what they smell like in the moment I smell them again.
And in that moment I remember every time I've smelled them before. I remember every time my mother said she loved the smell. I remember the time I convinced her to plant three small lilac bushes in our yard, because that way we would always have them, and how she agreed, even though Parkinson's had already robbed her of enjoying their aroma.
I remember buying them, planting them, watering them, watching eagerly for blossoms, pointing them out to her. And I remember, driving past that house years later, now owned by someone else, and the pain of seeing that they had been ripped out, along with all the trees, and in their place stood a white plastic privacy fence. I remember telling my mother on the phone, and I can HEAR her shrugging as she says it's not her home any more, they can do what they like. My mother is a practical woman. She's moved on without even trying.
She's a practical woman, my mother. She may miss smelling flowers or tasting food, but ask her if she does, and you'd likely receive little more than a wry grin, and a handwave, and acceptance of her fate. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept, etc., etc.
But I find it harder to accept things. So every time I pass lilacs in bloom, no matter how hurried I am, I try to remember to stop, to lean in, to bring the cones full of heady little flowers close, and to breathe deep.
I like the smell of lilacs. I love my mom, but we had few things to connect us beyond the normal responsibilities of mother and son, and precious few topics of conversation, so even something as trivial as a love for lilacs was something I grasped at, desperately. So because they were her favorite, they're now my favorite as well. And I know from personal experience, that smells do not last in the memory the way sights and sounds or even tastes do.
No matter how many times I have smelled lilacs, when they are gone, I can't remember it. I can remember the pleasure of it, the words I would have used to describe it when I was smelling it. But I only truly remember what they smell like in the moment I smell them again.
And in that moment I remember every time I've smelled them before. I remember every time my mother said she loved the smell. I remember the time I convinced her to plant three small lilac bushes in our yard, because that way we would always have them, and how she agreed, even though Parkinson's had already robbed her of enjoying their aroma.
I remember buying them, planting them, watering them, watching eagerly for blossoms, pointing them out to her. And I remember, driving past that house years later, now owned by someone else, and the pain of seeing that they had been ripped out, along with all the trees, and in their place stood a white plastic privacy fence. I remember telling my mother on the phone, and I can HEAR her shrugging as she says it's not her home any more, they can do what they like. My mother is a practical woman. She's moved on without even trying.