Home

Sea salt. Chocolate. And lemonade. As soon as I catch the scent on the breeze, I know I’m home. 

We stop at the beach. The aroma is stronger. Sea salt. Chocolate. And lemonade. And all I can think about is her. The way the sea salt scent got stuck in her sun bleached strawberry hair after long days in the water. The way our skin became pruny as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky our very own watercolor. The way she always poured in way too much lemonade powder, so much that the drink became sugary chalk in your mouth. So much that the sourness made it hard to swallow. So much that we laughed at each others’ expressions as we choked the gross concoction down. The way she always carried Hershey Kisses in her purse. All the flavors. Even the peppermint ones when they were out of season. Especially the almond ones, which were her favorite.The way her lips tasted of them when we kissed. Sea salt. Chocolate. And lemonade. 

We leave the beach, shivering, sopping messes. That’s what we get for taking a swim in November. We head to the house. And before we’re even there I can smell it. Bleach. Smoke. And alcohol. I can smell his rancid breath that never stopped reeking of booze. I can smell the excessive amounts of bleach he used to make the blood disappear. My blood. I can smell the cigarette smoke that hung heavy in the air like a blanket. Our own personal blanket of grief. Our only cover from the outside world. The only thing there to hide us. When we arrive he is gone. But the stench remains. Bleach. Smoke. And alcohol. 

After a sleepless night of ratty old sleeping bags, and him on my mind, we hit the road again. We stop at the tree. And I can see the rain cascading down my cheeks, and hers. And I can see the backpack full of clothes, and food that I stole when I was forced away. Rain. Magnolia. And Sharpie. I sit at the tree. I look out over the town. I look out where we looked all those years ago, as the rain washed away our tears. The magnolia tree is grown. What was once a sprout, is now a strong, healthy giant of a tree. But it smells the same. It just reminds me of her. The Sharpie has worn away from the tree with time, as it has from my own flesh. Tears prick the back of my eyes, as I scan the tree for any sign of us. Of the heart that we drew upon its slippery bark that night. But it is gone. I instinctively look back to my own arm. To the spot where she drew upon my skin. Holding me close. Breathing words of love on my tear stained face. But it, too, is gone. Permanency is something I’ll never understand. How can something be here, and then not in a moment? Rain. Magnolia. And Sharpie. 

Once I recover, we walk towards my refuge. And as soon as I see it from afar, I’m enveloped in it. Books. Gingerbread. And coffee. I think of my first time in this spot. I think of how I looked upon this place with awe. The wonderment that only the naive can accomplish. The wonderment of the innocent. Turned now to the wonderment of the guilty. I think of the first book I read here. I think of the crisp smell of its old pages, of how I was amazed that a story could just sprout in someone’s mind like a flower, and then be picked and laid out across the paper. It was my own little garden of words. I think of the cookies that they would sell here on the holidays. I think of the warm smell of gingerbread that would waft to me, as I cultivated my garden. I would never cut the flowers. And they would never die. New ones would just keep growing. I think of the coffee that the elders would sneak me sips of from a young age. I think of how it tasted professional. Like I was entitled because I’d have a sip. Like I was experienced, because I felt the traces of caffeine in my system. Like I was anyone other than myself. Books. Gingerbread. And coffee. 

I don’t want to leave, but when I’m finally dragged out the door, I realize that we are on our way to our final stop. The old gazebo is as decrepit as ever. But there’s someone in it. I see a strawberry bun, swirled with gray. Bubblegum. Lavender. And freshly baked bread. And I know it’s her. And I’m running towards her. And I’m embracing her. And were tangled together in a hug of pure love. I remember our last. And I remember all the ones in between. The juicy bubblegum that she could never kick her habit of, that I always tasted second hand on her rosy red lips. The lavender perfume that she’s wearing right now. The same scent that she wore when I met her. The same fragrance of youth dancing about her. The fresh baked bread smell, that she never could get rid of. The yeasty aroma of her hard work. Of her tireless efforts to do the right thing. And suddenly I’m tasting the bubblegum again. The juicy explosion of flavor. The beautiful tinkle of her laugh. The soft caress of her touch. And before she can stop me, I seize her purse, and retrieve the Sharpie that I know hasn’t left it since that day. And I draw on her. Flowers dot her fingertips. Hearts appear on her cheeks. Stars like her wrists like bracelets from the heavens. Words emerge on her forehead. Three words. And I’m attached to her again, afraid to let go. Bubblegum. Lavender. And freshly baked bread. And I’m reliving everything.

Sea salt. Chocolate. And lemonade. 

Bleach. Smoke. And alcohol. 

Rain. Magnolia. And Sharpie. 

Books. Gingerbread. And coffee. 

Bubblegum. Lavender. And freshly baked bread. 

So this is what it feels like to be home.