Memories Between Pages

*Based on a true friendship*

The doorbell rings and I jolt from my thoughts nearly spilling my coffee. The dogs are barking ferociously at the Amazon delivery man as he walks back down the pathway to his truck. I let them calm down before I attempt to open the front door to grab my package. I’d really rather not chase them through the neighborhood. Again. I smile proudly at my guard dogs doing their duty. No one would dare break in once their intimidating barks are heard. I certainly don’t need an alarm system. 

They resume their afternoon nap. I sneak to the front door, slowly turn the deadlock as I push the door further into the door jamb. Otherwise, the lock will make an unmistakable screeching squeak that will send my dogs into another fit of barks. I pause to listen if they have gotten up, then quickly and swiftly swing the door open and slip outside. The dogs have been alerted and were on my heels before the door even closed behind me. 

The package now rests in my hands. As I turn for the door, I gaze out into the front yard. The grass can no longer be seen. Colored leaves of all shapes, sizes, and colors blanket the yard. A sea of oranges, yellows, ambers, and reds. There is not a shade of green in sight, and I love it. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the scent of autumn. 

Just as swiftly as I slipped out, I slip back inside. Their furry tails are wagging, anxiously awaiting to sniff the new object in my hands. I hold the package in front of them, watching their noses shift and twitch back and forth. Their curiosity is adorable.

I scurry into the kitchen to snatch a pair of scissors from the drawer to open the bubblewrap-like Amazon parcel. Even though I know what’s inside, the excitement is anything but hindered. I reach my hand into the opening, letting the plastic package fall to the floor. A book. A brand new book. And the best part? It’s my own. I wrote it. I helped design the cover, I’ve seen the mock up, but seeing it and holding it in person for the first time is unlike any emotion I can describe. My first book, I softly say out loud to myself. I grace my hand over the cover, as though I’m soaking up the moment through the tips of my fingers. I see it. Feel it. I hear it, the thud as I turn it over and the flipping of the pages. I open the book to its center and bring it up to my nose. I want to remember every part of this moment, even as a scent. Closing my eyes, I breathe it in, creating a memory. The bibliosmia tickles my nose. The smell of paper, ink, and binding. One of my favorite smells. Ask anyone who knows me. 

As the scent of my new novel enters my nares, it meets my brain bringing forth a memory. Taking another deep whiff, the link between scent and memory strengthens from twelve years ago. In my mind’s eye I am back on my college campus. Leaves crunch beneath my boots while my friend, Katrina, and I saunter to our college library to research and study. Or so we will try. Our laughter could be heard billowing through the quad. Anytime we are together, there is rarely a single occurrence without laughter. She would make me laugh, then she’d laugh at my laughter, and we laughed harder. That was the word to describe our friendship. 

We take the steps of the library one by one. The early 1900’s, three story, stone building towers over us. The magnificent archway engulfs us. We stand there in seriousness, composing ourselves before entering. Simultaneously, we glance at each other, sending us into another string of giggles. 

“Stop laughing!” She whispers at me, trying not to shout, while also trying to stop her own laughing.

“Stop making me laugh! Don’t look at me.” I whisper back.

Finally, after a length of time neither of us are aware of, we are composed. For now. At least enough to enter. Katrina pulls the metal handle of the massive, medieval wooden door. It creaks as I cross the threshold, and creaks to a halt as its weight sends a boom echoing through the library lobby. We dare not look at each other. Composure is what we are striving for. 

Unfortunately, the books we are searching for are not on the first floor, a level where group chatter and collaboration is welcomed. We need the second floor, a place where talking is nearly forbidden. Our footsteps ascending in the stairwell is deafening against the silence, obliterated by our shuffling. 

Every time I enter the grand, second floor library, I am in awe. The dome ceiling glowing with uplighting. The wall to wall wooden bookshelves lines both sides of the elongated room. Tall windows provide a view overlooking the center of campus. Rows of waist-high bookcases separated by solid oak study tables span the length of the room. Each table holds a lamp. At the far end is an opulent fireplace with a stately chair on either side. The room is commanding. A sight to behold. A preeminent location for serenity. And probably the last place two giggle guts should be, together. 

As sure as the sun would rise again, one of us was bound to make the other laugh. This time, I was destined to start the series of chuckles and cackles. While gaping up at the ceiling, I clumsily thump into a table, causing the lamp to teeter back and forth. The sound of my body thudding against the table and the clanging of the lamp reverberates through the entire room, capturing everyone’s attention. All heads lift and turn to us. 

We stand as still as statues, for however brief, until Katrina’s outburst of guffaws breaks the sound of awkward silence. Inevitably, mine ensued. She yanks my wrist and rushes us off around a corner into a tiny study room.

“How did you run into the table?!” She questions breathlessly.

“I was looking at the ceiling.” 

“Why?”

“Because it’s beautiful.” I say, trying to cease the giggles. She rolls her eyes at me. She always does whenever I have a charming or dramatic thought. 

We gather our composure once more and attempt to get down to business. Entering into the domed room, silence meets our ears once again. Walking along the bookshelves, we pick our way through the various resources. I am enamored by my surroundings. I admire the different sizes and styles of books as I glide my fingers over their spines, scanning the titles. The patina of the wooden shelves is aged to perfection. 

Katrina audibly inhales as she holds an old, open book and proceeds to cough out the unpleasant scent. “It stinks.” She says to me and holds the book open in my direction. “Wanna smell it?” She whispers with a questionable look on her face.

I blink in confusion as I stare at her. Why would I want to smell an obviously stinky book? I wonder to myself. But I lean over and sniff it anyway. My nose is instantly filled with an ancient, musky scent. Intrigued, I take the book from her and smell it again. “You’re not going to believe me, but not only do I love this smell, it smells like wood and earth, but I kinda think it smells like chocolate, too.” I whisper.

The look on her face is nothing short of shock, as if the screws in her jaw fell out and clinked on the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding.” She remarked. 

“I’m serious, smell it again.” I offer the book to her. 

“I’m not smelling that thing again, you weird book sniffer.”

I let out a hoot of laughter but the shushing behind us stops me. It became obvious to both of us our mere presence was disrupting the tranquility. Gathering what we need from the shelves, we find a table in the furthest corner. A small amount of studying and research is accomplished before our attention span dwindles. Katrina starts to chuckle in disbelief as I take a whiff from all of the books we have laid out across our table. “I can’t believe I never knew I loved the smell of books!” I can hardly contain my whisper. The scent of the old books was as if I was breathing in parts of history. I was discovering how time itself created an aroma of time long since passed. Each book held its own organic tones, leaving behind notes of its origin. 

Katrina takes a book, “Here, smell this one.” She offers it to my face, then snaps it shut nearly nipping my nose. She snorts with laughter, sending me into a streak of cackles. 

The shushing behind us grew louder. I swat Katrina’s arm, “Stop making me laugh.”

Her chortle ends with a snort, “It’s just too easy.” 

As I stand in my kitchen, twelve years later and holding my novel in my hands, the memories of our short college days come flooding back. One of her greatest talents was making me laugh, for no apparent reason. Two completely different souls and opposite personalities brought together by laughter. It was the very essence of our friendship. 

I left my beautiful college after only a year and half. It was one of the hardest decisions, knowing I was leaving so much behind. Experiences I wouldn’t attain anywhere else. Friendships that wouldn’t flourish beyond those years. But life was calling me home. Home to someone I would marry and shortly thereafter I would divorce.

Now, Katrina lives on the other side of the globe. A colossal distance of 7,000 miles. The wisp of any book, new or old, instantly takes me back to those bittersweet memories. The scent is linked to a part of my being I long to relive. A time in my life I wish I could do over and choose to stay for the four years. Life was simpler back then. But I can revisit those moments every time I bring a book to my nose, where I find memories between the pages.