Smells

They* say that smell is the strongest of the senses for bringing back memories of people and places and I can well believe this is true. Every time I catch a whiff of someone's perfume I am transported back to a hotel restaurant in Majorca about 25 years ago, clutching a bread roll, I have no idea what the perfume is and the memory is only fleeting, I remember very little else of that holiday but it's such a vivid vision. 

This morning on the bus I could smell something, I don't know what it was but there I was standing in my Aunty Dolly's back room, eating a choc ice that had that very distinct taste that comes only from being in an old lady's freezer for a long time (Jesus, old lady's freezer sounds like some kind of euphemism). I don't know what the smell is only that it takes me back there immediately. 

Almost as soon as that had faded something else caught my attention, I could smell my Dad's fishing tackle box (and again, this is honestly not a euphemism), I can see the box sitting in the corner of the garage, filled with all manner of paraphernalia, I have no idea what any of it is called, but I can see it, as clear as day. The smell isn't fishy, it's more like the smell of the sea but with musty undertones. Every now and then I smell that same smell when I'm in work, on the stairs. I don't think he's with me, watching over me because, I don't believe that, he's dead, that's it, he's gone, I know it's just the smell wafting in from the nearby river but it brings him to mind instantly.

Then there's a very specific smell that brings to mind the medicine cupboard in the kitchen of my Dad and Step-Mum's house, it smells nothing like medicines, it actually smells of spices, they were on the bottom shelf, the plasters, bandages and pills were on the shelf above but that doesn't seem to matter to my memory. Spices = medicines to me.

*I don't know who 'they' are but you know what I mean

Memories are made of this*

*I'm going to have this song stuck in my head all fucking day now...

It's funny how a little thing can trigger a memory but every afternoon when I change into my gym clothes I am reminded of my Dad, it's a very specific memory. I'm not suggesting my Dad was into wearing Lycra (though I wouldn't put it past him but that's a story for another time), it's the static noise as the fabric shifts that brings him to mind.

Many years ago my Dad called from his bedroom "Laura, come here, I've got something to show you..." I can see Social Services would be writing up some case notes if this was to happen now. So, into the bedroom I went, I stood in the doorway, it was dark, the curtains were drawn and the light was off, there was a rustling noise and then there were sparks "look at that" That's all static," he said as he peeled off his work jumper and flecks of light flew off his body. 

I am well aware of how dodgy this sounds, it really isn't. It's a fond memory of a good man who is no longer here. I may struggle to picture his face these days - they don't warn you about that, when someone dies - but I can vividly recall the amazement in his voice after his static discovery.

Happy people have no stories

I glance up from my book as he gets on the train. He perches on the seat, not quite facing forward, not quite sitting sideways. His suit is slightly too big for him, the shoulders stick out beyond his own, they're empty, there's nothing filling them. He's not wearing a tie but he is wearing a waistcoat, too formal for the office, the suit sits too badly on him, he's going to a funeral, he must be.

His eyes aren't concentrated on anything specific, they dart around the carriage, they never settle on one spot. 

He clutches a card, sealed in an envelope, it has no name on the front. I wonder if he's handing it to the bereaved, not sure how to address it he's left it blank. 

He rubs his face hard, I can't tell if it's to stop him crying or if he's trying to wake himself up and then he opens the envelope. He fumbles to tear it open, his thumb ripping at it. The last corner hasn't torn open and he wrenches it again and again trying to free the card. He gives in, he tears at the corner and opens the card. He doesn't want anyone to see, the front covered closely with the envelope, he reads it over and over, then carefully, never revealing the front of the card he puts it back into the envelope and rubs his face again.

My stop is approaching, he moves his legs so I can get past, I wait at the doors, he appears behind me, we leave the train, he is gone.