the smells of things.

Sitting with the Mercy Lou the cockapoo this evening, I smelled her sweet puppy breath when she licked my face, and I relished the moment. I know it won't be long before her baby dog smells turn into big dog smells.

It reminds me of my kids' smells. I already miss their little people smells, though some of them still return to me on occasion. Every once in a while, I can get a hint of Summit's baby breath when he gives me kisses, and when that happens, I am flooded with beautiful memories of him as a teeny weeny human being. I recall his sweetness that would softly splash the room after taking baths or waking up from naps. Ella used to teeth on a little toy we named Mr. Tiger. I never wash him because there are moments when I can breathe in the scent of her little baby mouth from his fur. Her little white blankie, though tattered and dirty and overly washed, still carries the smell of her baby hair and hands and face.

For some reason, I identify memories with various aromas, and when they come to me, I am carried back to a specific time in my life. I love to go into my grandmother's closet and smell her old housecoats and sweaters and bed sheets and see if I can find her in them. There is a small tub of Pond's face moisturizer that I used to buy for her and that I rubbed on her soft skin during her final weeks that brings her back to me.

And it's not just people that smells remind me of. There are places and experiences that live in redolent scents from my past. Paper mills carry the memories of countless road trips from South Carolina to Florida with my family when I was little. Not one of us fails to share a story of driving through Brunswick, GA and making jokes about "who made that smell." (What can I say? We are a family who enjoys a good laugh from bodily vapors.)

The aroma of  spruce pines takes me high into the Rockies of Colorado, up Gothic Road to mountains so majestic they take your breath away. I remember snowboarding between them, hiking through them, camping amongst them, watching meteor showers near them, and all of a sudden I get to be young and free and careless and naive in a good way.

On the occasions when I get a sprinkling of a certain plant that smells like the Alfred Sung perfume my mom used to wear, I am transported to Santa Elena Canyon on the Rio Grande. I instantly remember being 20 years old, canoeing into the towering limestone walls and being covered in a scent so dazzling it made me want to cry and bottle it up all at once.

One of my favorite scents is that which emanates from desert sage, abundant and resilient in the desert of the Southwest. Whenever I am so fortunate to catch a whisper, I float back to when I lived on the Colorado Plateau in the Painted Desert of Utah. I remember steep canyons, impossibly rugged terrain, and auras of a people who vanished long before we ever made our way out West. I remember lightning storms rolling across the desert and bright red sandstone rock formations that would enchant even the most well-seasoned traveller.

I love when these experiences find their ways back to me. They help me to remember all of the good and happy times I've enjoyed, all the fun and adventure and love I've been fortunate enough to encounter along this journey of my life. These smells are mementos of a life well-spent as well as encouragements to keep trucking along in search of new endeavors. I love the smells of things.