Fragrant Flashbacks by Leslie Ann EisenbergI couldnÂ’t see when my milky, cornstarched body entered antiseptic air and bright lights. The pungent mixture of latex gloves and bleached blankets were my first breath. I couldnÂ’t see, but I didnÂ’t need to see. I could already smell my mom. My nose was a sponge, sucking up her sticky Aqua Net lacquer. I could taste rubber nipples before they touched my mouth, and I could smell gummy, vanilla formula warming on our sparkling clean electric stove.
When I could see, I didnÂ’t need to see. Whiffs of crisp, clean smelling sheets contrasted with the mustiness of fifty-five stuffed animals that slept with me in the dark. On every birthday, the astringent pink scent of a single rhododendron placed in a bud vase aroused me from slumber. Varnish fumes from daddyÂ’s dusty workshop burned my lungs. I sniffed the tang of great aluminum pots filled with spaghetti sauce that bubbled and burst red tomato seeds and fresh green spices onto the singe-stained electric stove.
With one eye closed, I still didnÂ’t need to see. I trampled down wet mossy lanes in the woods, snapping green, aromatic twigs, chewing and spitting purple clover that smelled like lavender and sugar. I waded in silty creek water that reeked of dead fish and frog s--t that clung to my clothes long after I walked home in wet, squeaking shoes and tossed my clothes in a mildewing pile.
With both eyes closed, I donÂ’t need to see at all. As I fall asleep in my grown-up bed, I can smell my husbandÂ’s hands, molded by callouses and sawdust from his wood shop. The intoxicating incense of white gardenias waft from my backyard, and I can smell the bouquet of my childrenÂ’s dreams and dirty underwear. 03/07/2004 Author's Note: formerly my biography
Posted on 03/07/2004 Copyright © 2023 Leslie Ann Eisenberg
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