Writing

Short stories

The fragrance of memories

The scent of daphne lingers in the afternoon air, the glossy green leaves and white flowers warmed by the sun as it valiantly breaks through the clouds.  As always the scent takes her back in time and she remembers walking up the cobbled path at her sister’s home, stopping to brush her hand over the top of the daphne bush to release more of the intoxicating fragrance. It sometimes feels like only a moment has passed since that day but in truth it has been nearly three decades.  Three decades of remembering the scent of daphne in August.

For the first decade her reaction to the scent was shockingly visceral. It made her ill.  She didn’t want to think about walking that path and what had to be done when she entered the house.  She wished she hadn’t touched the daphne. By the end of the second decade this turmoil was replaced by a deep sense of sadness, a resignation that nothing would have been different even if the daphne hadn’t been in bloom. Everyone had done their best. 

Now, at the end of the third decade, she takes a moment to examine how she feels as she takes a deep breath, the heady perfume filling her lungs.  As the memories and images flash past her mind’s eye like a movie on fast-forward, she realises that while there is a lingering sense of sadness, it is not overwhelming.  The memories and images no longer carry the burden of loss; instead they are starting to feel like the gift they have always been. She shakes her head, laughing at herself.

“How contrary can you get”, she says out loud to no-one in particular.

Walking past the end of the fragrant hedge, she pulls a flower stalk away from the plant, cradling the delicate flowers protectively in her hand.  Having returned home with her bounty, she finds a delicate vase and places the flowers on the table next to her favourite chair and allows her mind to wander through her memories of her sister Peta.

At first all she can see is the hospital room.  She remembers the smell; that scent of antiseptic and death. And then the sounds; the constant bubble of the oxygen running through the tubes, pushing vital breathe into her sister’s lungs and the rattle in those lungs that are tired and worn out, virtually useless.  Lungs belonging to a young lady that sound like they belong to an old woman. That was the last day of Peta’s life. Nineteen years, two months and twenty-two days of life.  At six o’clock in the morning Peta took her last agonised, tired breathe.  Her fight with cystic-fibrosis was done.

She again remember walking down the path at her sister Karen’s home.  They had to make arrangements.  There is a blur of activity organising the funeral and packing up Peta’s belongings from the house she shared with her friends, trying to explain to a five year old why she could no longer visit with her beloved aunt. The memories appear as a montage; snapshots of memory, sound bites of conversation. 

Thankfully the years have softened the sharp edges of these memories.  The saddest memories flow by and her mind is filled with the happier memories: Peta as a cute and placid baby; Peta washing the kitten in the bathroom sink and drying him in the clothes dryer; Peta starting school and graduating.  Peta and her first and only love, Darren. So many memories.

She picks up the small vase and breathes in the scent of the daphne, a smile lighting her face.