Perfume of the Fabric

I breath in deep as the breeze brushes past my face catching the faint scent of campfire, musk, and fryer oil – plaid. I’m brought back immediately to that beautiful spring day as a child, when all the worries of the real world hadn’t caught up to me and life seemed so simple. When the worst thing I could imagine was not being able to go to Grandpa’s because of the extra shift my mother had to pick up to “Pay bills, because that’s not something you have to worry about yet Meg”, she would say.

It was always an adventure at Grandpa’s, blanket forts in the living room, the fireplace our campfire, sugar, lots of sugar and all sorts of fried food albeit stale from being made the night before, which I later found out to be from the leftovers from the bar my mother used to work at. The rule free nights of storytelling and dreaming, letting our imaginations run amok followed by the inevitable sugar crash resulted in seeking the comfort of my Grandpa’s chest, my favorite pillow, my safe space, the musk, the plaid.

Grandpa’s stories were wild and somehow, he embodied the character he took with every story. His voice, his fashion, his gestures, and there was never a dull moment as I sat in a big pile of clothes feeling small in his rather large jacket listening to stories of a motorcycle gang that he used to be a part of, wide eyed and buying into every detail. He transformed into a southern belle swirling his shawl as his story shifted to wooing a particularly proper and difficult beauty and I tilt my head to look at the mantle catching the revered picture of grandpa and grandma caught mid laugh on a particularly windy day. I wonder if the story is about her. I wonder if any man will ever measure up to Grandpa.

The stories dwindled, time caught up to reality, when imagination alone didn’t sell Grandpa’s stories. It shifted to a deeper, meaningful banter, the logic and science behind his tales. “Grandpa, that does not make sense. You said you borrowed Rick’s bike which you claim was nearly breaking down, to go from Michigan Ave to Main Street because that’s the only time you could catch a glimpse of grandma after her ballet practice, before she was picked up and all under 20 mins? It’s not humanely possible, the physics doesn’t make sense.”, I grumble while kneading the dough with an increased fervor. “Ah, you wouldn’t know how beautiful your grandma was, it surpassed time and space. She would come out of class and drape that shawl over her shoulder so delicately, I wished I was the shawl”, he said with a dreamy look in his eyes. He never failed to make me smile, and I decided to let it go. “That’s love baby girl. It doesn’t make sense when fate and the universe move you to each other. If a man doesn’t gravitate towards you like that, is that even love?”, he said looking deep into my eyes. “Grandpa, is this about Colin? I don’t know if it is love, but he’s special to me and I want you to be nice to him at dinner tonight. Please? It’ll mean so much to me.” He shrugged a compliance but his words still ringing in my ears. Shaking my head, I push the thoughts away reminding myself, I’m just in high school, what would I know about love?

“Nice to meet you Mike, I’m Colin”

“That’s Mr.Harris to you or sir.”

“Sorry, yes sir.”

I roll my eyes and mumble that dinner’s ready. It was nauseatingly silent during dinner punctuated only by the cutlery. I nervously look around and catch my grandpa’s eyes and hidden behind the tender smile is a message “Are you sure?” I get a chill that I try to shake off and Colin eyes me and passes me his letterman jacket. I smile a thanks and I wonder, why are we not saying anything and just communicating through eyes and smiles? As I put the jacket on, I get a scent of the familiar Irish spring, clean, with a hint of flowers? It feels like a hug, unsure.

“Grandpa, we’ve got enough pictures. It’s time to go!”

“Just one more baby girl. Colin, maybe you can move a little to the right, away from her, out of the frame would be perfect.” Colin scoffed and I stifled a chuckle.

“Now there’s only one thing that would make this outfit perfect.”, Grandpa says mumbling as he shifted towards the closet by the door. He was rummaging through things as I catch Colin impatiently thumb his phone voicing to me “We've got to go, the party’s on full swing”. I shrug a “I’m at the mercy of when Grandpa says it’s okay to leave” and I get an eye roll in response. “Found it!”, I hear an excited muffled voice from the closet. After some crashing and banging, Grandpa emerges with a box that had a bow on it. As he opened it and lifted the shawl so reverently, I let out a small sob. This shawl, the main character in so many of Grandpa’s love stories, still in pristine condition and smelled like grandma, lilies, and cookies. He draped it around me delicately and whispered “Grandma would have wanted you to have this. It looks just as beautiful on you as it did her.” I hug Grandpa and he lets out a sigh. An echo of, “That’s love baby girl” ringing in my head. I would find out that I did not gravitate towards Colin like the universe wanted me to and the only token of the relationship, a forgotten letterman jacket in a box.

“Grandpa, you know I can’t let you drive. Mom can drop me off at the dorm and I’ll be back in the weekend for our epic living room camp night.”

“Yes dad, it’s a 4-hour drive and we’re not planning on making many stops.”

Grandpa begrudgingly agrees, loading the last of the box into my sad excuse of a car, the only use of it being that it has 4 wheels and can bring me places. He looks up (because somehow over the years my 6ft grandpa has shrunk significantly) at me and smiles with tears in his eyes. “I’m proud of you baby girl. It's time for your own adventures and I can’t wait to hear about them. I love you so much.” He pulls me into a bear hug, and I once again feel safe, like nothing can go wrong. “There might be some surprises in the boxes when you unpack them”, he said sheepishly with a huge grin. “I’m going to miss you Grandpa. I love you too.”

The road trip with my mother had been the much-needed bonding experience. We turn up the radio as loud as it would go and roll down the windows (yep, the AC was broken) as the humid summer day somehow makes a cooler car warmer. As I predicted, at about the 2-hour mark, the engine sputtered and I was out under the hood, trying to calmly go through the drill Grandpa taught me when it came to cars. A greasy and sweaty endeavor later, the engine reluctantly choked back to life, and I did a little victory dance. My mom was laughing, she threw me her shirt to cover up my greased and sweat stained one. “Thanks ma!” I yell over the engine; I throw her light shirt over and take a deep breath in to calm down letting the hint of vanilla and fryer oil – cotton take over. It was smooth sailing there on out and an occasional side glance at my mom confirmed how tired she was. Years of real life catching up to her and all the hard work to give us the life we have clearly etched on her face.

“Do you ever feel lonely?”, I asked rather randomly.

She glanced at me lazily and said, “I had no reason to, I have you and Grandpa.”

“But what about now? Now that I’m leaving?” I regretted asking the question the minute I asked.

As though reality was just sinking in that she was going to be an empty nester, she sighed and remained silent. I guess I would never find out the answer and I didn’t want to press on.

Although very excited for a new start, unpacking felt like a Herculean effort after a 4-hour drive. That combined with the adrenaline expensed that day meant I was going to crash hard. After unpacking the last box, I smile at the surprises my Grandpa left me – his jacket and my favorite plaid shirt. I take a big whiff and put it on and slip into a dreamless sleep. “It doesn’t make sense.”

I debuted my first day in college in my rather oversized Grandpa-plaid shirt. At the risk of appearing dorky and nerdy, I wanted the comfort of home and familiarity to help ease me into a rather scary world. I’m met with a sea of anxiety-ridden and overly excited faces like my own, I’m sure. I have found my tribe. I breath in deep, the musk, the campfire, love.

“Orientation isn’t supposed to be this scary, right?” I turn to follow the voice and see a rather tall, equally nerdy looking man towering over me shifting his glasses nervously grinning toothily. I smile and shrug feeling very conscious of me swimming in my shirt.

“I’m Oliver”

“I’m Margaret, Meg”

“Hi Margaret, Meg. I see you’re in my class roster. Nice to meet a fellow computer nerd.”

I vaguely remember the rest of the orientation but remember every detail of our conversation. I had been rambling on about Grandpa and mom to Oliver who had a very curious look giving the right pauses and asking questions. It had been well into late evening before I realized that I had to maybe head back to the dorm, Oliver graciously offering to walk me back. The chilly summer evening (even as I say it, it doesn’t make sense), sending shivers through me. Mindlessly, not breaking our conversation, Oliver wraps his jacket around me – musk, wood, dirt. It felt like a promise, assurance. It started with classes, then followed into the library, events, parties. But Oliver was everywhere and not intentionally either. Our friendship often mistaken as something more, kept growing to an understanding.

“They’ve taken him in for surgery, I know nothing more.”

“Surely, you have been working here for so long, you know enough to tell me if this is good or bad.”

“Ma’am, the doctor will be out shortly, and I will let you know the minute he’s out. I don’t know anything more.”

Patience was never my virtue. I paced nervously, mumbling to my mother who looked worse than when I left for school. Defeated, no amount of shitty hospital coffee or sheer adrenaline could keep me up as I sat on a less than comfortable plastic chair and let the day take over my body. “I’m proud of you baby girl.” Echoing in my head as I drift off. I woke up to a searing headache and a crick to my neck and I registered musk, dirt, wood. I look up to see Oliver silently swiping across his iPad, carefully trying not to move his arm concerned that he’ll wake me.

“Oliver! When did you get here? How long have I been out?”

“Oh you’re up. You’ve just been out for 2 hours. I got here about then. I’m glad you got some rest, makes the waiting time go by fast.”

Before I could reply, a doctor followed by the nurse came by and announced that we could see Grandpa. Amid showers of questions and concern and a plan of action for recovery, it hit me that Oliver had come out in under 3 hours. It’s not humanly possible, the physics don’t make sense. I look over at Grandpa sleeping peacefully and I gently wrap Grandma’s shawl over him. Subconsciously, he lets out a sigh and there’s a hint of a smile. “It doesn’t make sense when fate and the universe move you to each other.”

Thanksgivings and holidays were the loudest at Grandpa’s, regaling tales of old times and reenactment of highlights from my time in college. Of course, this included living room camping and lots of sugar and now an equally enthusiastic third member to our posse, Oliver. He willingly played the role of an enraptured audience, oohing and aahing at the right moments to the lead roles my Grandpa played. Somehow through this process, he earned the right to call Grandpa, Mike and over time promoted to Grandpa. Taking advantage of this position, Oliver convinced Grandpa to many stubborn suggestions that came with his deteriorating age, reminding him that the authority came with being able to call him Grandpa. Campfire, musk, wood, dirt, safety, love, promise. I’m claimed.

“How much for this box?”

I come out of my reverie where I was lost in my flashback to find a tiny person behind that voice. I realize I’m holding a box full of clothes, and I’m lost for words.

“How much for this box? Is it for sale? My school is putting on a play and we want clothes for the roles, and this is perfect for us.”

Feeling like something caught my tongue, I nod and mutter “How much can you give me?”

Very confidently she pulls out a crisp $5 bill and flashes it before me.

That’s what it’s reduced to, a 5 dollar bill. My entire world, my entire being, my safe space for 5 dollars. In an expected stern tone, I say “Not for sale.” As I drop the box to walk away.

The fall breeze hinted at the upcoming chill, leaves raining down as more crunched beneath my feet. For once, I welcome this cool air as I walk with a purpose, candy in one hand and some flowers in the other. I look down and see the familiar twin stones. Reaching over, I clear the fresh fall and gently place the flowers in between. As if on cue, the wind picked up this time hugging me tight with whispers in the air. I kneel to trace the names on the headstones, they are finally together at last. “It doesn’t make sense when fate and the universe move you to each other. If a man doesn’t gravitate towards you like that, is that even love?” For once, the air is dry and all I smell is the hint of snow on winter’s doorsteps.

It’s time, it’s time for a rewrite of the adventures. I smile as I ruffle through the box, Grandpa’s jacket, his plaid shirt, grandma’s shawl, Colin’s letterman jacket (can’t believe I kept that), mom’s shirt, Oliver’s jacket, my own dorky collection, a myriad of scents, musk, dirt, vanilla, lilies. Seasons passed by and I had grown and outgrown these clothes, holding on, barely by a thread to memories, missing opportunities at a life. With a resolve I shut the box and march up the school steps and find the tiny person look up at me saying “I don’t have the $5 anymore.” I laugh thinking Grandpa would have liked her. “That’s okay I wanted to donate this box to you, if I can come watch the play?” The girl looked like she was seriously considering my request. She nodded and took the box eagerly and scampered her way in. I smile and walk back to my car and from afar I see something caught on the windshield. As I get closer, I see Grandma’s shawl stuck under the windshield wiper, as if not ready to let go. I smile and quietly thank Grandpa and Grandma watching over me and wrap the shawl around me to feel the warmth of their hugs, of all the hugs over the years, love that molded, shaped, and brought me here. “That’s love baby girl.”