a rose by any other name

Lately, I've been remembering a lot of smells.

I'll walk into a room or catch a whiff of a passerby and my mind snaps back to whatever association I may have. I was doing an interview last week in a woman’s condo on the west side of town, and the smell inside her home was almost identical to the woman’s home who I stayed with for a week when I was a page in the Washington state House of Representatives my freshman year of high school. I’m sure the similarity was just a shared taste in cleaning products, but then I couldn’t help but notice similarities in the sounds of the house, or the way each of the women carried themselves.

Another is the smell of peach black tea. I just made myself a steaming mug, and cannot help but remember the endless cups of it I drank at Camp Lutherhaven two summers ago. The smell of my house in the Tri-Cities, my old volleyball gear (not as pleasant, but still distinct from other sports or workout gear), James’ detergent, fresh ink on newspaper, old letters, the cars of past boyfriends, nail polish, the nuanced smells to each of my best friend’s tears.

Some are connected to specific conversations in time; others evoke a certain emotion or state of thought. I get frustrated when familiar smells change, or worse, fade altogether. I know it’s sometimes frivolously nostalgic -- my mom will be forever grateful that the volleyball gear is clean and tucked away in my bottom dresser drawer. But what can I say, sometimes we all need a frivolous stroll down memory lane.