The Smell of Funerals

 

Deborah Greene begins the sixth chapter of her novel, Aroma of Righteousness, by writing that fragrance, like death, is fleeting (197). Immaterial. Ultimately and unavoidably ephemeral. And I agree with this, to a point. The sensation of scent tends to only permeate for a few moments, and while its memory may linger for years to come, smell remains trapped in a muted paradox, inaccessible and unspeakable until the physical source returns. However, I believe that in cases of great emotion — like the examples of martyrdom Greene presents — smell can transcend its liminality. 

I’ve heard documentarians describe places of great human tragedy as retaining a smell decades after the actual event. Almost as if the locations are haunted not just by memory of suffering but the sensations of it as well. For Auschwitz, it’s the “smell of death,” for the Cambodian killing fields, it’s “the smell of rot,” and for me, it’s the smell of formaldehyde. Allow me to explain. 

When I was six years old, my uncle Robert succumbed to his battle with cancer. Within the oppressive darkness of the funeral parlor, I watched as my aunt, my parents, and my older cousins grieved. Instinctually, I knew that Robert was “gone,” but I couldn’t quite understand the level of permanency attached to such a label. It was especially confusing because, swaddled in the white bedding of the coffin, Robert looked like he was sleeping. Sure, he was a little paler than usual, but at any moment, I was expecting him to sit up and ask for a drink. It wasn’t until I approached the viewing stand that I realized the extent to which Robert had changed.

As I peered over the coffin’s edge to look at his face, a sharp sensation flooded my nose. He smelled vile. Briney and burnt. Like vinegar with a suffocating overlay of sickly-sweet powdered roses. I froze, unable to stop the bombardment. This was not how Uncle Robert was supposed to smell. When I stood next to him, I would breathe in the scent of laundry detergent, black coffee, and mint chewing gum. He smelled fresh, clean, rustic, and alive. All of that was gone now, replaced by a pungent, acidic odor that permeated the small room. 

I cried for a long time afterward, and to this day, I’m not sure if it was because I realized that I would never see my uncle again or because the smell was that horrific. It’s been impossible to forget too. At every funeral and every wake — regardless of whether the body is embalmed or not — I am haunted by that smell. It ghosts through the ceremonies, never fully pronounced, but always reminding me of the weight of my sorrow. For years, it tormented me, and I would feel nauseous at the slightest mention of death, but more recently, I’ve found it to be strangely comforting. 

This is because, in the last year and a half, I’ve attended four funerals and grieved the loss of my friend, my grandfather, my professor, and my uncle. It was exhausting. After that much pain and sadness and anger, I was completely devoid of any capacity for emotion. Yet, whenever I smelled the formaldehyde, I found myself able to feel again. Smell gave shape to my previously formless grief, allowing it to become tangible, and by extension, finite. Even now, I’ve not entirely healed from the losses, but whenever I am reminded of the smell of death or rot or embalming fluids, it helps to put into perspective the complex wave of emotion I feel. As like any fragrance, it too shall pass.