Making Scents of the Past

The morning sun painted my room with a gentle glow, casting a cozy atmosphere that I reluctantly left behind. I resisted the urge to crawl back into bed, hastily bundling my hair into a neat bun and slipping into my work clothes. One final glance in the mirror, and I shouldered my bag, stepping out the door.

I stepped out of the lift I was hit with an overwhelming fragrance. A woman I didn't know scurried out of her flat, leaving behind a cloud of potent perfume. It hung in the air like a dense fog. I'm not sensitive to fragrance, and I could detect freesia and citrus notes - smells I normally love. But something about it made me uncomfortable. It felt familiar. And made me feel vulnerable somehow. I welcomed the fresh air with relief as I headed to the station.

As I sat on the train, my thoughts strayed. The scent from earlier still lingered in my nose, and with it threatened memories that I had no interest in entertaining. I kept trying to pull my mind back to the present, but it turned out olfactory memories have a persistence that rivals the most annoying Christmas song.

"Nah, not today!" I declared inwardly, pushing away the flood of emotions threatening to engulf me. Hurt, anger, pain - I had no time for them. Revisiting misery-laden memories, sources of my abandonment issues and overwhelming need to prove myself by overworking? Sounds like a slippery slope to self-reflection town and I can't take the time off work to visit, so...

The day droned on, and I buried myself in work, trying to shake off the fuzziness I felt. That was until I got a text from Brianna. She had been my closest friend since I'd moved to Australia from the UK, until I severed ties with after a disagreement that seemed so insignificant in retrospect. "Hey, I know it's been a while, but I was just thinking about you. How about grabbing a drink this week? Miss you xx" I read the message repeatedly, feeling a pang of shame for ending our friendship over something so trivial, but I longed to patch things up. Plus, I thought it might be a good distraction from the murkier things on my mind (and in my nose).

The days blurred, the scent lingering stubbornly, like an uninvited guest overstaying their welcome. I wondered how a fragrance could feel so comforting yet make me want to repel it at the same time. The aroma of fresh flowers, like roses and jasmine, circulated in the air with a kind of hopefulness. Blended in with the warm depth of musk and amber, these notes created a sense of security and sorrow that felt too fragile to embrace. My thoughts kept drifting to my estranged cousin, and the time I lived with her.

Two drinks in, and it was like the past six months had never happened; we talked, laughed and shared stories like old times. Our conversation shifted to our families in our home countries. Brianna came from a large close-knit family that speaks every day; I have always been envious of that. I told her about my recent memories that had been haunting me recently. "Sounds like you're nostalgic. Maybe you should go home for a while?" she suggested. "Nah," i shook my head, twisting my hair. "The 'nostos' in nostalgia means to return," she giggled. "I don't want to return" I laughed, "too much trouble!" Bri smirked: "the algos part means suffering," we cracked up at this.

After a warm hug goodbye, Brianna suggests I try to confront the feelings to make sense of them and get some peace. As my feet hit the pavement, bracing myself for the inevitable encounter with the all-too-familiar scent, I reflected on my and Bri's conversation. “Family is that place of familiarity that holds and hurts us” I remembered bell hooks saying. She was never wrong, that woman. And neither was Bri. Smarty-pants.

I opened the door, half-expecting the scent to assault me, but tonight, I felt different. The margaritas, along with Bri's words, had weakened my defenses. I closed my front door, my living room a sanctuary. But it was too late. It had invited itself in, and I realised it was not going to stop furiously tapping on my shoulder until I asked it what the hell it wanted. I sank into the sofa, feeling my throat tighten. I no longer felt like adult me in my own place, but a troubled teenage me twenty years prior, in the hallway of my cousin's flat.

Donna was 12 years my senior, so she felt like an aunt or older sister more than a cousin. I was 16 when I moved into her flat across town with her and her husband, Steve. With almost all of our relatives scattered in different countries and continents, and my parents planning a move to Australia, it was a great to have someone nearby. At Donna's place, I could drink wine and go out whenever I wanted. It was like holding onto childish freedom while feeling safe within my extended family. 

The block of flats sat awkwardly on the corner of a winding road off the esplanade that people were warned to avoid. With a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the flower box outside their kitchen window was a footer to a view of the bright lights across the river where the clubs I ventured to were. I could still feel the fresh air that came through the window, even the smell of the blue carpet was still vivid. Along with, of course, Donna's perfume.

I yearned to be as mature as I thought Donna was in 12 years. I was frustrated and resentful of the world. She had a calm, indifferent attitude and her highlands accent and polite manner gave her a light-hearted persona, though within this attitude there was an aloofness.

Donna was outgoing and bubbly, but it was clear she carried scars. Where I was fiery and impulsive when provoked, Donna would speak in a confident, almost clipped manner, and you could never be sure what her true feelings were. To put the feeling into a picture, it would be like being on a boat in a sparkling blue sea and a perfect breeze, but with the subtle threat of an iceberg nearby. 

Her perfume and shining silver jewellery seemed tailor-made for her creamy skin punctuated with freckles. Her watch and bracelet hung gracefully from her slender arms while she raised her wine glass and absentmindedly twisted her hair every time she spoke.

When I was 10 or 11, Donna moved down from Scotland to be with us in England. She wasn't just my cousin; she was the older sister I never had. She babysat my younger sister and me and filled our lives with fun while our parents were away working. Her bubbly friends would come over before a night out and we'd hang out with them while they got dressed up. 90's dance hits filled the air along with sweet perfume peppered with hairspray and cigarette smoke.

She was my guide, giving me advice. We'd ride around in her old banger, the beaten-up radio always seemed to be playing Nightcrawlers or Strike and I couldn't wait to be a teenager so I could dance in clubs. Donna often took me out shopping - something my mum never had time for. One day, on a shopping spree down town, she bought me my first pair of boots, a leopard print top, and jeans. Her splurge for herself was always a bottle of perfume.

With shopping bags in hand, we walked through the high street, and in a moment of vulnerability, I asked her the question that had been lingering in my heart: how long would she stay with us?

"For good," she declared with absolute certainty. My heart filled with joy and comfort, as if she'd wrapped me in a hug with her aroma of, ironically, Eternity by Calvin Klein.

But one night, Donna and mum came home from a night out. I glanced out from my bedroom window as the cab pulled up outside, expecting to feel pangs of envy at hearing their laughter. Instead, I heard sharp words and escalating tension as they walked inside. A huge argument broke out that I could only hear muffled from upstairs. Then, Donna stepped outside with my dad who was trying to comfort her. She sobbed that my mum had it in for her. The next day, she was gone. I was gutted.

I had never truly acknowledged the deep hurt that the void Donna left had carved within me. My cousin no longer living with us can hardly be considered a tragedy, after all. Later, when I was sixteen and mum had kicked me out the house; and my parents and sister were emigrating to Australia, I moved into a run-down council flat. I was adamant about making it on my own, and wouldn't admit how much I was struggling. Not only was money tight, but my loneliness and uncertainty of what the future held was suffocating me in its darkness.

So, I was quietly relieved when Donna reached out to me and suggested I move in with her. Memories swirled of our fun together years earlier, and I felt a flicker of hope for the first time in a while that maybe I wouldn’t have to face the world alone.

Donna was married now, to a lovely man called Steve. They'd had a baby, and soon another would be on the way. Donna, ambitious as ever, had gone back to university to do a medical degree and would soon be working full time as a doctor. Donna told me they would soon be moving into a larger house and that I could take over their flat; it was affordable, and I had friends nearby.

But tensions quickly grew between us as Donna wanted me to be more proactive in my future whereas my biggest priority was trying to block out my pain by partying. Eventually, with her small flat, two growing children and a heavy work and study load, she coldly said I had to leave. I listened wide-eyed as she explained she'd already contacted the letting agent so that I could return to my bedsit. With my abandonment issues already lodged at this point, I felt nothing but animosity towards her, and severed our relationship for good.

I sat on the sofa immersed in these memories, suddenly aware of how much resentment I had been carrying around with me. I seemed to use it as a form of motivation, but still was self-aware enough to understand that shutting people out of my life isolated me from people who cared. Though Donna was at fault in some ways, I knew she hadn’t had an easy ride either—her mother had thrown her out and moved abroad. Despite this, she raised two wonderful kids and had a successful career.

But admitting this meant facing up to the truth about myself; I had picked the stories I could live with—that she kicked me out and I still succeeded without them and was better off without any of them. I’d slammed the door on their mess and left for another country, studying hard and working myself to the ground, oblivious to the irony.

I had a hard time sleeping that night. The following morning, I saw my neighbour as she was about to leave and introduced myself. She was cheerful and energetic; somewhere in her mid-fifties, short and medium build, with dark hair and dressed in bright colours. We talked for a while about the neighbourhood and her move in. After she accepted my offer to help her get the last of her belongings inside, we set a plan to have coffee later in the week.

As I stepped back to say goodbye and head to work, I asked: "Is that Eternity by Calvin Klein?" She smiled and nodded. "Yes, it is. Do you like it?" Taking a deep breath, I returned her smile and said, "It's a classic!" I could feel bittersweet emotions about to tug at my eyes, so I glanced at the door and added: "But I think I might be allergic. Have a great day!"