Thought of these things while driving to work this
morning...Summer smells. All the sights, the textures and wafting aromatics behaving like a memorial slideshow that rattle me from the
monotony of grownupedness. The ones that spread my nostrils, expand my rib cage
and tug hard at the forgotten bits of absolute submissiveness
.
1) Warm white bread, clear sun-cooked mayonnaise that
looked more like Vaseline than food, thick planks of store brand Jack Cheese
secreting waxy flavorless puddles that seemed to beckon, like a damn magnet,
each grain of sand on the beach where I'd enjoy and devour my handmade, sand
encrusted, sweaty sandwich with the smell of Coppertone 12 a preferred aromatic pairing to the scalding fruit punch, swollen and exploding from the plastic containers
offered by the bus that brought us there, at discounted prices to help our hard
working single parents save on child care.
2) Bonnie Bell Roller Ball Lip Gloss in bubble gum or
cherry. The gritty and lard-like feeling against my teeth from chewing at the
top of the tube, teeth and tongue plunging and tugging to pry the roller ball
apart from the thick plastic encasement. This action creating a river of fucked
up, fake as hell, lustrous lip gloss to spill out over my then young and plump
lips, tongue and teeth. An effort to exploit my awkward and slippery. Losing
and enticing my fear of my own pulsating sexuality. Make them look at me....but
don't let them see me scoop droplets of sickly sweet smelling lip oil from my
bottom lip, and hope they don't notice me scratching the industrial, fuzzy barrier
on my grill being created by this hellish lip junk. Pray they don't recognize how badly I
want them to see it all and somehow crave touching, smelling and kissing me while at the same time wishing I could walk silent and unnoticed, alone and content to be that way...
3) The shivering, pinching, aching and undeniably
captivating fascination as I witnessed
my taught white fingers roll and sweep, delve into the deep valley of dark
brown skin that ran down his back. Our 12 year old fumbling. Our well beyond our years and left alone courage. Discovery. Recovery and the beginning of my figuring out where to strap on the hard armor and where to leave pockets of craveable exposure, The way his young frame would shiver...the
way my teeth would nearly pierce my lip. His ache and want the kind of sweet
pestilence that would eventually leave deep textural scars, both motivating and
hauntingly regretful.
4) Re-fried beans all smutty with lard and charred
thick corn tortillas. 5 years old, alone on a pungently scented beach. Running
from the rotting aromatics of two old people I didn't know drinking themselves
to death in a country not of their origin. The blistering hot silver metal tube
of utter surrender with the rickety door that never closed all the way. Me
counting the blinks of their inebriation, "five-four-three" the burst
of head spinning aromatics as I broke out in my cut off shorts and obnoxiously
ruffled shirt my mom purchased at the border crossing. Hoping her toe headed
gringo daughter would blend a little better in Mexico. Dropped off there to visit her
dying father's numbing parents.
5) The sweetly sweaty smell of my tiny son. His puffy,
thick and tightly curly hair like a cap that held all his daily events down
hard against his skull. The late nights when I would slither in behind him
sleeping on the couch. His plump cheeks looking like the most luxurious
material I could ever imagine. The stillness of his resting eyes, the kind of
sleep that to this day I am not sure I have ever experienced. The way his tiny
frame sensed me, bent into me, would wiggle deep into the perfectly made for
him folds of my body. My illusion of authority and his collusion making me earn
it. To this day I can still smell the sweet, feral, hard earned gravy of my
skin mixed with my son's. It's why I crave those kisses he so readily gives me
on my forehead. I smell Us when our heads are that close and that particular
aromatic of summer, simply the most precious and powerful I know. (Happy 28th
my gorgeously hearted son. I love you like...well like only you know)
6) The bubble gum, banana and eventual peachy, mineral
rich, mouthwatering crunch and refreshment that is summer rose. Starting too
damn early each year now but once I get past the weird and unfinished aromatics
on far-too-young wine I start the check list in my head. From the lonely
beaches of Mexico to the bustle of crowds clamoring for the newest vintage of
Rose from France, Spain, Italy, Greece, California and Portugal, aromas have
been my partner and drive for as long as I can remember. Ushering in each
season, teeth stinging from weighing through the 400 samples of world rose to
find just the right symphony of aromatic and palate pitch to keep our
brilliantly savvy customers curious and coming back for that next pleasure
promising sip. Digging through way too young pink wine with an eye, and nose
for the months ahead feeling like warm perfumed hands upon my cheeks and
pulling me deeper into each glass, coaxing and asking, "Do you know
someone that needs this wine"....
Silly lonely girl that has forever lived and loved in
the breathing in of every tiny bit of every situation. The soul, sting and
coating of pleasure that some of us find living and reliving through deep
breaths and palate lashings.
Grateful for you all....
And the way you get Us.
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