Patchouli

The family room is quiet this evening. The people that once filled this room haven’t in many months now. An antique clock taunts me; its hands stop moving whenever I stare up at it. The pine woodworking was well crafted by my father before a time I can remember anymore. But I am old and gray now, antiqued much like the pine clock. I don’t move the same way, just like the struggle it faces now. 

A clock that doesn’t know the time—Is it useless?

Maybe it’s just bored.

It’s well past midnight at this point, but the hands finally struggle to stretch upward, playing a faint, little chime. Twelve rings echo the empty house throughout each room. They can be heard in my room that I no longer sleep in since my husband left. They can be heard in my son’s room, where dust has been the only occupant since he left for college last year. They can be heard in the guestroom, where my father had passed last month.

At the twelfth chime, the second hand of the clock gets stuck. I struggle to lift myself off of the tired leather couch to fix it. I tinker with the back of the clock until the hand moves again. The pendulum below its face wags its tail, happy to still be shown some love.

Then I smell it. 

The faint scent of fresh autumn dirt and the whirling branches of the woods behind the house. It was patchouli. My father had always worn essential oils and patchouli was his favorite. It sounds like it would smell awful, but it was actually soothing and nostalgic. When a strong breeze laced with patchouli would waft into the room, I knew my father was close behind. 

So I associate the scent with something old, like me, the clock and the aged trees that stand thick in the woods. But it doesn’t make me sad or fear the end. I find comfort in it, like a blessing of ancient wisdom cast upon me. 

The first time the scent crossed me, I was outside playing in the woods and looking for faeries. I had made a small town of mushrooms and flowers I had picked, as an offering for the faeries to come out. I heard the fae were fond of milk and honey, so I had snuck some without my mother taking notice and left them two small dishes. After placing them, I went off back in the woods to collect twigs and whatever else struck me as something they might like. 

Then I smelled the patchouli.

I follow the scent back to my little faerie town and the bowls were empty, but nothing in sight. I dropped my findings and ran straight home. I was excited and afraid and everything wonderful. I started leaving these offerings once a week. Each time, the smell of wet earth and exotic flowers wafted through the woods. I was convinced that one day, the fae would show themselves to me.

After many months of this cycle, I eventually gave up. Especially when my mother found food had gone missing, I had been scolded. My father, of course, would try and cheer me up and keep me busy. 

One day, he decided to teach me woodworking and how to construct clocks. It was a beautiful art. Each clock had different twisting designs that looked like curving branches grown from the Earth, rather than crafted by a man. As he was shaving the pine on his newest clock, I smelled the scent again. 

It smelled like wet earth and magic. I had believed for a moment that my father kept a secret from me. That we were a family of faeries and that we had magical powers and that’s why we always had milk and honey in the house and why they were on the table every supper. I liked to believe that his crafting abilities were part of that magic, as faeries are always crafty and good with their hands.

And I wondered what my power would be.

Of course now, I know that my father had snuck into the woods and emptied my bowls of milk and honey while I wasn’t looking. He wasn’t a faerie and I had no magical powers.

But as I smell the patchouli, strong as ever throughout the house, I start to wonder if he did have a little magic.

I grab an old photo album and scan through the pictures. I find one of me and him at his clockwork station, him showing me how to place the gears in the clock. My mother had taken the photo. Pictures hadn’t decorated my house in a while, because memories were too painful. I couldn’t live in the past and surely couldn’t have it staring me in the face each day. 

But being alone is lonely.

I take the photo out of the album and shut it, dusting the cover with my hand. I place the album in reach of the pine clock and place the photo in front of the clock. This was the clock I had made with him. It’s crazy to think, but it felt like a big wet earthy kiss smooched my cheek. And for a moment, I believed in magic again.

I shuffle to the kitchen and scan the fridge for milk and the cabinets for honey. I pour equal amounts in small dishes. Afterward, I take them to the clock and place the saucers on the table next to the clock, one on each side.

I grab a knitted blanket from the couch and my worn pillow, and decide that tonight is the night I would sleep in my own bed again. 

I wake up refreshed, though feel silly for my thoughts the night prior. But part of me hoped that I would walk into the living room, and see the dishes empty. That I would smell patchouli and my father would be standing there beside me.

So I went to check on the clock. It chimes on the eighth hour as I walked up to it. The photo hadn’t moved, nor the album. My lips curl into a frown at the untouched saucers of milk and honey. I start to cry. 

I bury my face into my wrinkled hands and sob at the bowls of milk and honey. Sniffling and gasping between tears, my nose catches a scent. It’s patchouli. And I feel a gentle hand brush my shoulder. 

I’m too scared to move, but the tears are too scared to keep pouring.

When the hand releases my shoulder, I whirl around. I see a shadow dart past the kitchen and hear a whisper.

“Check them now.”

My head snaps back to the empty saucers, and the scent of patchouli drifts away.