BY JULIE VIGELAND
Why can’t I get rid of it? So many other things are gone. The grandkids wanted shirts and jackets – reminding them of Opa. Our son, after thinking he didn’t want anything, wrapped his arms around a jacket. I’ve held onto a few things as they were a part of him. But not many because – they weren’t him!
So, again, why do I hang onto it?
Yes, there’s the beautiful, encased clock received as one of his many honors. It sits where he left it, by his sink. He didn’t have any place for it at River Terrace. So, there was a reason.
But the tactile green bottle with the black top – it just sits there to the left of the clock by the sink. Untouched.
I’m not sure when we become aware of aromas as children. Maybe it’s the pleasant smell of cookies baking. Perhaps it’s the acrid odor of the alcohol swab prior to an injection. Or even – the earthy whiff of dirt. Yet somewhere along the line, we associate smells with experiences.
One of the first smells I remember from childhood was that of sawdust. It emanated from my dad’s workshop. Dad was always extra happy when I’d visit the workshop and watch him sawing, nailing or sanding the wood for a project. Roses, too, were an early reminder of my dad working in the rose bed bringing in a bouquet for mom. Those roses will always be the best smelling ones to me.
And then there was mom and her Shalimar perfume. She didn’t wear it all the time. Only for special occasions. That’s when I’d loll on their bed watching mom prepare for a special evening out. I knew all was complete when she opened that bottle and dabbed on some of the goldish liquid. The smell took over the room, in a good way, and I was infatuated.
When Ted and I first started dating, he was wearing English Leather cologne, and it was intoxicating. I didn’t know the scent before that so had to do some sleuthing to find out what it was. He wore that for years – never too much. It’s rare these days with people being sensitive to others and their allergies. But once in a while I detect a trace of it and know immediately.
Memories flood my head.
And Ted, how he loved perfume on me. We’d go perfume shopping once in a while and try on different brands until we couldn’t smell anymore. Giggling. There wasn’t a time when we could visit a duty-free store on overseas travel that we didn’t test loads of bottles and then purchase – at least one new bottle.
Again, given sensitivities, perfume is rarely worn out and for sure never in a crowded theater or such. But it was nice to have.
Then, there was the strange development that wasn’t understood until years later. Ted could no longer smell much of anything. It impacted what tasted good to him and for sure it changed how I wore perfume. I had to put on more for him to enjoy it and that was certainly not outside of the house where it would be offensive to others.
I know and understand now that the lack of olfactory senses was one of the oddities of his illness. By the time it was understood, he couldn’t understand it. It just was.
So now, back to that green bottle.
It’s squat and small.
The name is suggestive which is unimportant here.
It was last opened before Ted went to memory care.
It sits there and I stare at it, unable to open the lid knowing the emotions from even a small whiff will be too strong.
I can’t/won’t throw it away. It would be like clearing Ted from the room. From my heart.
When?
I don’t know.
