A Brief Scent of Forever

The smell of bacon.

It reaches you even before the plate arrives, before the woman slides it in front of you. Bacon, cooked extra crispy of course, just on the edge of burnt. The sausage and two sunny side eggs are just for show. You come here because they know how you like your bacon.

Well, that and because it’s on the way. But for now we can focus on the bacon. We don’t have to go there yet.

I watch you close your eyes and take in the scent, as I have so many times. For a moment there is bliss on your face. Your troubles drop away and they take the years with them. You are a woman at peace with the world.

You open your eyes. You meet mine, and you smile. I know we’re going to have a good day.

“What have I done with my glasses?” you ask the world at large, and before I can reply, the waitress does.

“They’re on your head, dear,” she says, before I have a chance.

You hate being called dear. We distract ourselves by laughing at you forgetting, again, where your glasses are. How many times have we played that one out, where you forget something and I help you with it? It frustrates you at times, but today it feels like a little superpower to be able to forget for a little while. To avoid thinking about what comes next.

Mystery solved, you can tuck into your eggs. And the bacon.

Smells are so important. 

I once read that memory isn’t just in our heads. That we actually leave pieces of our experience in the objects and people around us, anchoring our journey through life. I wasn’t sure about it, but you heard it once and were forever sure it was true.

“Think about how a smell can take you home,” you’d tell me, “or anywhere else. You get a whiff of the right pine tree, all of a sudden you’re in a winter forest in Canada. The right sunscreen, and you’re on a beach in Australia. A roast turkey, and it’s Christmas.”

And we’d laugh, and we’d talk about the smells that had made us. Had shaped us. And those that lingered long in our lives.

I remember the smell where we met. Your brother's wedding was at a winery, and the neighbours had a lavender farm.

You were just a little allergic to lavender. Not enough to make you sick. Enough to make you sneeze, and all afternoon, every time the breeze blew the wrong way, your laugh would turn to a sneeze. You tried so hard to pretend you were okay.

I remember the smell of the orchard by the cellar door, where we found refuge from the lavender. Where we stole a single kiss, caught up in the day, before a breath of lavender on a breeze set you off and told us that maybe today wasn’t the day for that.

I have long since forgiven the smell of lavender for the intercession that day. I secretly even enjoy it.

Of course, some smells carry less pleasant experiences for us to relive.

The smell of high grade disinfectant, covered by low grade air freshener is the smell of hospitals everywhere. You would be justified if you hated that smell, if its memories dragged you down a well of discontent. That’s not who you are though. As you cross the floor to reception you smile. 

The receptionist smiles back, stuck on a phone call. The girls here think you’re the most positive person in the world. I know your smile is defiant, but you’ve always thought it’s important to bring to the world what you wish to receive.

“Hello, Mrs Taylor,” a male nurse says, approaching, “here for your appointment?”

“Well, hello Doctor Handsome!” You say to him, with a sideways wink at me, “yes I am. Are you here to whisk me away?”

“Oh, Mrs Taylor, I’m Nurse Smith.” He replies.

“I know who you are dear.” You tell him. He smiles.

“Well, Julie here can check you in, if you want to head to the ward.”

Julie gives a friendly wave, still on the phone.

We cross the hospital lobby together. You lean to me and whisper.

“I had no idea what that man’s name was,” you whisper to me, “but he really is handsome!”

We both chuckle at that.

“At least we can do this together,” You say to me as we wait by the elevator, “you’re my anchor in this place!”

One of the doctors gives us a look, seems about to say something, but you give him your patented “I can say what I like” glares and he subsides. You follow it up with a sunny smile to let him know it’s nothing personal.

On the tenth floor, reception tries to smell different. Less disinfectant, more air freshener. Still a hospital. As you take your seat, I see your eyes focus on the vase, a dozen roses standing proudly on the receptionists desk. 

Your eyes slowly lose focus. I know your mind is drifting. I put my hand on yours. 

Stay with me.

Do you remember when roses were your favourite?

I didn’t know what flowers you liked. I didn’t know how to be romantic. So each date I’d bring you a single rose. A different colour every time. 

Years later, you admitted you’d never really liked roses before that. The thorns scratched and you felt guilty when they wilted, like you’d failed them. By the time I ran out of strangely coloured roses to bring you, the smell made you smile.

Wherever we moved, wherever we lived, we planted rosebushes. We got quite good at it, really.

As I watch you stare at the vase of flowers, your eyes are distant. You turn, meet my eyes, and you smile again. 

You hold on.

“Those are beautiful flowers,” you tell the receptionist, “were they a gift?”

“Oh yes,” she enthuses, “we’re going away this weekend, and he has been sending me gifts all week.”

“It reminds me of…” you begin, then pause, your eyes start to get distant again.

Your Doctor walks into the reception area and saves the day, “Mrs Taylor! So good to see you! Did Rachel mention her road trip this weekend? It reminded me of some of the stories you’ve told me. An open topped car, hair in the wind.”

You smile, thinking of those times.

“There is nothing,” you tell Rachel, “like exploring the world in a cherry red classic Mustang!”

You laugh.

“Why just thinking about it is enough to make me think I should rent a car myself, and go out driving!”

The glance that Rachel and the Doctor share says they wish you could.

We used to travel.

Between the first adventures of discovering each other, and settling down, we explored the world together.

We would pick a place, somewhere in the world. The coastline of Australia, the mountains of Canada, the crumbling castles of southern France. We would hire an open topped sportscar, and we would drive, finding rooms wherever we finished.

You wouldn’t think there could be a common smell to all that, but there was. The scent of sun beaten linoleum warning the steering wheel is painful to the touch. A slight smell of exhaust, because rented sports cars are never in quite the ideal condition. 

And then the overlay of wherever we were - Pollon, pine, sunscreen.

Freedom.

In the Doctor’s office, she is trying to convince you to move into care.

“Mrs Taylor, I really think moving in with us would help. Habits are so important,” The doctor tells you, “I’d really strongly recommend you come and move in here.”

You resist. Today is a good day, how can they take this from you?

“I don’t trust this place to cook my bacon right.” you tell them.

Isn’t it enough that you can’t rent a cherry red Mustang, drive it to the cellar door of the winery and breathe the apple blossoms? And if a whiff of lavender were to get in the way, it would still be worth it. Then you could drive to our first place, barely a cottage, and dance among the rose bushes.

Isn’t it enough that you can’t do that, that you can’t trust your own mind?

Do they have to try and take away your bacon too?

“Mrs. Taylor, I know it’s hard,” the Doctor’s voice is so gentle, “I know it’s hard, for people with your condition, the episodes only increase over time.”

Last time you were here, you’d been having a good day on the way in. But your mind had gotten confused, and they’d had to call our son to come get you.

“And it’s only going to get harder,” the doctor says, “after losing your husband.”

You turn to look at me, and our eyes meet. I can see you trying to reconcile it. I watch helplessly as the knots of your mind unravel. 

As you remember that I’m not really here.

If there’s a blessing, a silver lining to your condition, it’s that most of the time, you don’t remember me getting sick.

You don’t remember battling the smell of disinfectant. In our home, and then the hospital, covering it with flowers and petals from our garden.

Most of the time, you just know that you don’t enjoy the smell of roses anymore.

You’re scared. You’re forgetting. The doctors can’t help you stop it. But when a scent pulls you back, the clouds go back, and if you’re not quite you now, you’re you as you’d like to be.

We can be together, and I can be your anchor.

Because when we’re together, you can remember.

The smell of the bacon reaches you even before the plate arrives, before the woman slides it in front of you. Bacon, cooked extra crispy of course, just on the edge of burnt. The sausage and two sunny side eggs are just for show. They get your bacon right here.

I watch you close your eyes and take in the scent, as I have so many times. For a moment there is bliss on your face. Your troubles drop away and they take the years with them. You are a woman at peace with the world.

You open your eyes. Your eyes meet mine, and you smile.

Today is going to be a good day.