The numbers were getting too much, they were everywhere. I felt like I was calculating the number of breaths I took in a minute while trying to estimate the rate at which the sun was blasting its warm rays at me. I could hear my heartbeat getting louder in the background, I could feel another meltdown coming over me. I pulled the drapes shut and rested my head in my hands. I began to recall the time when I actually enjoyed solving sums and theorems until I took AP Calculus in my final year and numbers became the enemy. I decided to clear my head with a walk. I raced into the living room, grabbed my wallet and keys, threw on a coat and headed out before I could convince myself otherwise.
It was surprisingly bright for this time of the day and I was definitely dressed too warm for the humid evening. Nonetheless, I could feel myself growing hungry and knew exactly what I wanted. I started making my way down to Central Park for the best hot-dogs in the entire city. It had genuinely been too long since I treated myself to one of those. On my way there, I began to notice the little things, like how the streets had actually gotten cleaner, how fall was near and all the leaves had turned yellow, how I had gotten better at crossing streets but the streets were still crowded. As I made my way through the crowd, I suddenly caught a whiff of something, it was so faint but it called for my attention almost like a tap on the shoulder. I felt my senses heighten in search of it and almost made four twirls in the same spot trying to navigate the source of the smell and leapt forward with each breath. While following the scent I realized that we were headed the same way, towards the gates of the park. I wondered if it was someone around me. But this scent was too faint to be detergent or even an odour, so my gaze naturally shifted to things around me. My eyes fell on anything that could source the charming smell but instead, a strong smell of wet mud took over as I entered the park, the sprinklers had just gone off.
Maybe it was because I saw the fresh Camellias bloom or that the scent itself had a floral fragrance to it but the moment took me back to when we’d stop by the flower shop when we were expecting people over for dinner and look through the pretty posies. We’d eventually always end up picking the lilies. I walked closer to the bushes but the smell quickly turned sweeter, as if the flowers were filled with nectar. The texture of this smell was completely different, it felt like gallons of fluid flowing through my nose while my mystery scent would simply wisp through the air.
I took a deep breath this time and instantly visualized a man, it was Joe, our local grocer. I could see him pacing about his store with his white spritz bottle spraying his fruits with a fresh layer of mist and smile at them warmly as if he were almost proud of how plump the apples and pears turned out that morning. Our family used to head to Joe’s for everything; last-minute project supplies, midnight snacks or even to just catch up with Joe. Joe was practically family and we always called him over for our holiday dinners. He even used to read my baby sister to sleep on the nights he came over. I could not imagine why or how we got to Joe on this scent hunt but the scent did have a fruity bite to it, it could just be that.
I sat myself down on the park bench and inhaled deeply. I could feel myself rise a few feet from where I sat every time I took in that fruity, flowery goodness. How could a scent so feeble feel this intense, I wondered. A gush of feelings ran through me while I left my eyes closed and realized what was the constant in every thought that ran through my head. It was her. It was Mum. She was a part of all those memories. At the flower shop, lilies were Mum’s favourite. She would always try and reach out for something different every time we went there but when all the roses and bluebells did not manage to hit home, she would end up picking the same bunch of lilies. She would take them home, arrange them in the blue vase and carefully place it over the coffee table. She used to say that lilies always managed to make settings look so classy, I agreed.
It was her even at Joe’s. She used to do the grocery shopping because dad would always end up forgetting something from the list and have to make two trips to the store. He still does that. It was exactly in that moment when the colour caught my eye and I realized that I wasn’t wearing my coat, I was wearing hers. I was wearing Mum’s coat, I must have picked it up without realizing it on my way out. It was her deodorant. I knew the smell was familiar. I am surprised that the coat still managed to smell like her. She liked to call it, ‘her signature scent’. My mother was too modest to ever invest in the actual Eau de Toilette perfume so instead, she would buy the knock off deodorant version that they sold at Joe’s. No wonder the supermarket ran through my mind. Of course it did, I smelled it there. Even though she bought the fragrance all the time, right before dropping it into the shopping cart, she would still manage to sneak a quick spritz of it onto her wrist and close her eyes while she smelled the deodorant as if she were experiencing the scent.
No wonder the smell felt so distant even in my memory, it was Mum’s. It had been three years since we lost her to cancer and two since I moved out of the house. It’s been a while since I smelled that French deodorant. She would spray it on right after a shower and sometimes right before dad got back from work. I always found it sweet how, twenty-five years later she would still put in an effort to look good for him. She used to bake the best bread and sell them too. We got along well with our neighbours because they bought their bread and cakes from us. We even had customers who drove four miles every weekend for Mum’s banana nut muffins. She’d wake up early that morning and begin baking so they could have the muffins warm. I can still see her, dicing the almonds in her gingham apron with her dotted rose-pink head scarf swaying to Le Festin on the radio like a French baker. On other days of the week, I would find her pacing about the kitchen carrying a bowl to her side, whisking my morning eggs into it while trying to get my lunch ready.
But that was what was so surprising about her scent, the entire house would smell of sweet warm buns when I got back from school but her scent would somehow always still stand out when she came over to ask me how my day went. It was so light yet it still managed to linger in the air even after she’d left.
I took off the coat and brought it to my nose, taking in a deep breath as I did. This time I saw the roads we walked down whenever I was in a bad mood. She somehow always knew exactly what I needed, whether it was space or a hug. I felt my eyes well up, this was the first time I actually felt her absence. I was crying and there was no one who knew that I needed a hug and give me one. I gripped the tweed coat tighter and stuffed my face in it, the smell was different now. It had lost the fruity element to it. I gripped it tighter imagining the smell fade, just like she did. The thought of waking up someday only to find that the smell was gone and what remained was the dull tweed, flickered before my eyes.
I finally got up and made my way to the nearest flower shop. I scanned the flower bunches and my I eyes stopped at the lilies. I felt a smile come over me. I grabbed a few by the stems and drew them towards me for a sniff. I suddenly heard a voice. It was the old lady selling the flowers and she smiled warmly at me as she said, “She will love them. Lilies are a classy pick.” I smiled and said, “I’ll take them.”