The Scent Of Memories

 According to scientists - and if it's approved by science, it must be true - smell and memory are closely linked. To smart people, it denotes that the anatomy of the brain allows olfactory signals get to the limbic system very quickly. Which means, translated to English, that the memories associated with smells are really vivid when they happen, even though they tend to be older and harder to remember.

  Still, every time I decide to make a memory - and that might sound extremely ridiculous, but I do believe in choosing the memories we want to keep (might write a whole essay into it later), I associate it with my senses. Not only what I smell, even if that is the one I try my hardest to recall - but with sounds and colors and people. Recollecting the temporary world I might be inserted in at the moment makes the memory worth remembering.

  It also helps if you write it down. That's something I regret not doing with every single weird dream I've ever had - so I chose to do it with real memories instead. Ironically, I've never been good at keeping diaries, but last Sunday was a day I'm willing to save.

  The morning came with a breeze that brought out the scent of wet grass and summertime. I woke up earlier than the rest, to enjoy a walk across the park - it was hot and sweaty and dirty - but nonetheless outshined by an impossibly blue sky.

  Heading along with the sun towards the middle of the day, between friends and plans and laughs, I got caught up in a conversation about love in other languages - turns out physical affection is worldly misjudged. Next thing I know, we're all crammed up in the backseat of a stranger's car driving south.

  You could see the horizon from a mile away. The air smelled of sea, salt and sunscreen. The heat followed us in a flush, like a half opened oven door, and our feet burned in the sand. A blinding sunlight shined though the endless blue - I was barely getting the picture through nose scrunches and squinting eyes.

  Towels covered empty shells and tiny rocks as we lied down and took it all in. It finally felt like summer. Just like that, minutes turned into hours that passed by unnoticed whilst the waves kept on hitting the shore closer and closer to our corner of the beach. I stepped on stones and grass, dove into the cold water, looked for treasures hidden in seashells, fell asleep to the sound of kids laughing and birds chirping - until the sudden remembrance of the existence of sunburns startled me right up again.

  By the end of the day, we were exhilarated and exhausted - run out of giggles and poses for pictures and song choices. The ride home pulled in with it the scent of seaweed, fish and alcohol. I was hungry, tired and sleepy. Late hours at the dining hall were followed by us getting kicked out and taking buckets of ice cream to go. 

  I went to bed in a haze, arms sore and cheeks red. I stood in a flushed skin contrast to my cream nightclothes, and smiled to my reflection at the bathroom mirror. I felt the heat fading out with the light breeze coming through a crack by the window, the smell of grass and remnants of sunscreen, the distant voices of teenagers wondering free in the middle of the night - and I was happy.

  I may not always get this memory by the blink of an eye, but I'll have it guarded within bucket hats and French songs. The pictures we took sound like seashore and bad jokes. Ice cream tastes better now, and even when I'm unable to recall it anymore, it will never fail to make me smile.

  We associate memories with senses and our senses talk to our feelings. That's why I don't worry about them fading away like the heat at the end of a hot summer day - slowly to a point where the last reminder of it lives only on the surface of my tinted flesh - I'll never lose the warmth settled on the inside of my body. It's a part of who I am - and I chose to be forever changed by it.

Walnut Beach, Milford, CT