Wednesday, February 10, 2010

the dress

Smell is a potent wizard that transports us across a thousand miles and all the years we have lived.
--Helen Keller

When I was little my mom had this ratty old dress she wore at home. It must have been fiery orange-red when she first got it, but for as long as I can remember, it was a soft faded coral color, with a couple of unobstrusive holes hiding here or there. It was also terribly made, sleeve-less and curve-less, it resembled two pieces of cloth that someone decided to staple together.

For some reason, I loved that thing. Folding it carefully into a compact size, the four-year-old me would cradle it in my arms, feeling the soft air-like texture against my skin, occasionally burying my face into it. "It has a mommy-smell" I would explain to my dad, much to his delight and amusement. At the time, I did not understand what was so funny. It did have that familiar scent that lingers around, which I found, inexplicably, like a first home.

A few weeks ago I caught my mother trying to throw it out when she was cleaning out the closet. I didn't even know she brought it to America. Looking at it with a (somewhat more) objective eye, it was even more tattered and unimpressive than I remembered. I wonder why my mother had even brought it here, it seemed like she too, found this particular piece, filled with such memories, hard to let go, even though she hates displays of sentiment. I stopped her from tossing it, without much protest on her part. The dress is so old at this point that every aspect of it have begun to reverse itself. The fabric became a little harder and leathery from more than a decade's time, and as I buried my face in it once more, it no longer had the full fragrance of that comfort known to every lucky child on earth. Still, I'm convinced I caught a slight trace as I threw it back into a cardboard box. Maybe it's my psychology at work, unable to accept that what I loved so much is somehow fading. But even writing this, I don't think I mind this self-trickery on my part.

Memories are memories. Sometimes they are so strong one can manifest itself into a physical scent, transporting me across thousands of miles, and across all the years I have lived.

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