lavender
The olfactory nerve bridges the nose to the amygdala and hippocampus in the brain.
It is no wonder, then, that my lotion reminds me of stepping out of cold showers in the Philippines, of physics tutorials in first year, traffic lights, a song.
The perfume of my childhood is a colourful blend of plywood and satsuma essence and seawater. Petrichor and paint and smoke during sunset. Old classrooms. Tarpaulins. It is convoluted. It is rich.
The August air on the day we arrived in Aotearoa was distinct. Not quite spring, but almost. Since then I remember: freshly cut grass, norwester winds, gravel dust, firewood in the morning, morning dew, morning frost, factories, wood varnish, secondhand books—
I am older now. Aroma gets denser with age; some scents turn sour in hindsight. My early twenties are permeated with coffee and agar. Tired of a city that reeks of exhaust gas and alcohol, where the streets do not distinguish between Wednesdays and weekends. I am breathing, still. Desperate for fresh air but afraid to open a window.
They say candles only mask odours—they don’t get rid of them.
I burn citrus for the living room. Lavender helps me sleep.