I put on my sweatshirt this morning. It's the first time I have worn it since Thursday night. We spent that night in the Botanical Gardens, lying in the grass and watching the clouds rushing by, the stars above now hidden, now shining clear. Talking of our childhood, and sipping from little bottles of some obscure Polish liquor. The first was made with honey, and tasted of the summer to me... it made me think of warm nights and warmer days. The second was made with some kind of nut, and it tasted slightly bitter, bringing thoughts of winter and fall. Somehow, there in the Garden on a beautiful spring night, it seemed out-of-place to me. As I put on my shirt, I caught the scent of that night. Grass and fresh air and the barest suggestion of flowers.
I must have stood there for minutes, just smelling my shirt. I'm sure it made a bizarre scene, and if anyone could have seen me, I have no idea what they would have thought. I was just struck, I had no idea that cloth could pick up a scent like that. All at once I understood just what all those "Mountain Spring" and "Summer Fresh" soaps and detergents were going for, but falling miserably short of. I wished there was some sort of way to preserve that smell in my shirt. Just fix it there, the antithesis of all those smoky bars and clubs that leave your clothes stinking until they are unwearable. It made me want to take the entire contents of my wardrobe out there and just dump it into the grass overnight. But, somehow, I don't think that would work, it wouldn't be the same. The scent lingering in the worn cotton fibers of my shirt was a temporary remnant of an even more transitory set of events. An olfactory snapshot of a place and a time, of who I was, and who I was with. If it did not relate to a specific memory, would it still be relevant? It may still smell good, I suppose, but it wouldn't Matter in the same way. It couldn't. The difference between the picture on a postcard and one you take yourself.
I must have stood there for minutes, just smelling my shirt. I'm sure it made a bizarre scene, and if anyone could have seen me, I have no idea what they would have thought. I was just struck, I had no idea that cloth could pick up a scent like that. All at once I understood just what all those "Mountain Spring" and "Summer Fresh" soaps and detergents were going for, but falling miserably short of. I wished there was some sort of way to preserve that smell in my shirt. Just fix it there, the antithesis of all those smoky bars and clubs that leave your clothes stinking until they are unwearable. It made me want to take the entire contents of my wardrobe out there and just dump it into the grass overnight. But, somehow, I don't think that would work, it wouldn't be the same. The scent lingering in the worn cotton fibers of my shirt was a temporary remnant of an even more transitory set of events. An olfactory snapshot of a place and a time, of who I was, and who I was with. If it did not relate to a specific memory, would it still be relevant? It may still smell good, I suppose, but it wouldn't Matter in the same way. It couldn't. The difference between the picture on a postcard and one you take yourself.