Red Room Where the Writers Are

Issue/Publication: Perfectly Cursed Life

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“When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered· the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls· bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory” -Marcel Proust “The Remembrance of Things Past”

As I walked into work this morning the very distinct and strong scent of lilac entered my nose and teased my sinuses.  Although the purple flowers have been donning the shrubbery entering our office complex since yesterday, it was only today that I caught the smell. Marcel Proust may be famous for telling us that scent can take us back in time, but Proust didn’t mention that scent can comfort us exactly when we need it, if we only recognize why it’s there.

It’s odd to me that the lilac scent would be at a place I’m quickly coming to abhor.  Lilac is one of the earliest scents I remember.  Every spring my paternal grandparents’ backyard would be filled with the smell of lilacs.  My Nana’s coffee table would undoubtedly house several cuts that my Grandpa brought in for her.  That house lived and died with scent.  I can’t remember the first scent I captured there, but I can remember the scent of so many lovingly cooked meals, the scent of amazingly tender touch and the inescapable scent of time gone by.  My grandparents’ house was the scent equivalent of Glen Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade”–it always made you yearn for a time gone by while simultaneously making you feel safe.

Oddly enough, though I’ve never had an issue with lilacs and my allergies before, but as I am building up my maintenance on my allergy shots, the smell of lilacs, especially in the morning, was rough on my head.  I became woozy while recalling my Nana’s warmth and my Grandpa’s laughter, but still my nose itched and tickled.  When I left work, I welcomed the tinge, hopeful that I’d be able to revisit their memories in such a strong way.

My Nana and Grandpa were two of the most important people in my life.  This is especially true of my Nana.  She was my rock for the first 26 years of my life.  Whenever anything disturbing happened, the first person I wanted wasn’t my Mom or Dad, it was my Nana.  My Nana made it a point to attend all of the important events in my life–all of my school plays, all of my graduations, all of my events.  Despite the fact that she was the least ambulatory person I knew, no matter what, my Nana was there.

After my Grandpa died, my Nana became one of my best friends.  In high school, I’d spend an afternoon each week with her.  In college, I often took her on Saturdays to get her hair done and to the grocery store.  But always, the treat was mine and I was sad to leave.  No one I know has lived through more than my Nana.  She survived more than I care to write here, but she never once complained about it.  As her time to came to a close, only one month after her 90th birthday, I never heard my Nana complain that her life was too hard.  I never heard her complain about all of the work she did over the years.  In fact, if she was able to help in any way, she still was doing so.  And she was always able to listen, even if she didn’t always remember the next time around.  Although she battled Alzheimer’s and dementia, she never once forgot my name or face, even though she’d forget others.  We had a bond that was unbreakable.

When she died, even though it was expected, I was overcome with inconsolable grief.  I learned to move on though and find her in the things we shared.  Earlier this year when I made my brother’s favorite dish, a dish my Nana used to make for us, it was a communion of souls.  A few weeks back when I drove past her old apartment where we spent so many afternoons, I felt her near me.  But it was almost as if she knew I needed her today more than ever and reminded me of that in the scent of the lilac bushes surrounding me.

Today I came to the realization that, like it or not, I’m going through a bout of serious depression.  This is something that isn’t just a one-time thing for me.  It’s a genetic and chemical thing that happened to rear its head just when everything else in life took a nose dive.  It’s the mental perfect storm.  And to admit to yourself that you’re depressed when you’ve spent your whole life fighting depression like a salmon fights the current…well, it’s not a common or welcomed occurrence.

Tonight I walked out into our backyard when I got home to accompany the dog on his evening ritual.  I’m still learning about our house as this is our first spring here.  New things are popping up everywhere.  And sure enough, just like my Nana at every important turn in my life, in the corner, just out of reach of my nose, was a lilac bush.  I had seen a few buds last week when we returned from vacation, but thought nothing of it.

I took my chances on stepping in the dog’s mess, and walked to that corner.  Even though my nose stung and my eyes watered, I pulled one of the tender branches to my nose and inhaled.  I sucked in every ounce of that unforgettable smell.  I could swear, for a moment, I heard my Nana calling me from her back stoop, telling me dinner was ready.  I felt warm and comfortable and fed and safe.  I felt at home.

In that moment I knew I would be fine.  It wouldn’t be today.  It probably won’t be tomorrow.  It might not be any time in the near future.  But at some point, I would be okay.

I still fight the uncontrollable grief that one feels when they lose their best friend.  It’s even harder now when I could use her unique brand of comfort and no-nonsense.  Unlike most people, Nana was incapable of bullshit.  But she was more capable of love than any other person I’ve ever known.

Spring will have sprung.  Summer will arrive.  Autumn will fall.  Winter will come.  But every spring I’ll have that lilac bush, cascading with blooms, just waiting to be my little piece of heaven.  It’s not as overpowering as the ones of my youth, but in time it will become just as strong in my present as that life was in my memory.  It’s a scent no words can capture and an understanding that time cannot erase.