Today’s prompt: Smell is one of the most powerful generators of story and memory. Let’s follow your sense of smell.
Cooper, you’d make so much fun of me for this one. I’d probably earn a rare, “Jesus Christ, Mom.” Even so, I have your pillowcase in a Ziploc bag. I know, I know–it’s weird and borderline creepy. Here’s what you don’t understand, though, because you didn’t have a chance to have your own kids: when I open that bag, I have you for a moment.
I have my snuggly toddler, tired from running and wrestling, climbing onto my lap for a hug. And dear God, the smell of the top of your head. Nothing better. Sunshine, wind, and little boy sweat, all with the softness of baby-fine hair.
I have my big kid, back from playing pick-up basketball at the park. Maybe this is the time you unhappily reported that you’d broken the only previously-unbroken finger on your right hand. But the top of your head, Cooper, the top of your head. Still nothing better. Sure, there was a little more sweat, but still the sunshine and the wind. Still you.
I have my forester, and we are on our last 4-wheeler ride together, you driving and me enjoying the ride, grateful to still have you. Signs of late summer are everywhere. Whatever is floating in the air makes me sneeze, makes my eyes swell and water. I don’t care, though, because I can lean forward–not quite against you, but close–shut my eyes, and breathe in that sweet smell of you. At 28, you still carry the sunshine and wind in your now-long and wavy red hair, but there’s more. There’s sawdust and smoke, farm and forest, from the work you love.
I spent your life sneaking quick breaths of the top of your head, from the wispy red hair that was such a surprise to the long red waves I’m still finding. Every intake of that scent took me back to the time when your head tucked perfectly under my chin. No matter how tall and strong you grew, the top of your head was perfection.
So yes, Cooper, I have a Ziploc bag (double-bagged, if you must know) that holds your pillowcase, but so much more. It holds a bit of you.
Woods Writes 