The Scent of my Summers

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 I've talked about this in class before, but let's all wipe our memories and pretend this is new. 

I used to live in Vermont, and my grandparents have a house in Chatham (Cape Cod) that we would visit for the summers. It was a long drive back then, four hours in the car, half asleep in the backseat. I would always know when we'd arrived, as I would be picked up by my dad. The garage door was loud, usually jarring me a little, but I always knew what was coming next. The smell of the garage in Chatham has colored my summers since before I can remember. It's a specific sort of musk, not mold, that reminded me of sitting in a large pink bucket as a child, or walking down Main Street with a brown paper bag stuffed full of candy. 


As I've grown up, that smell remains dear to me, but less naively upbeat. It now reminds me of losing our annual wiffle ball game pitcher to cancer, days on the boat, being the odd one out, lots of laughs over all the seasons, and so, so much more. 
The level at which a scent can trigger a memory is jarring. Every time I walk into that garage, I am bombarded with years of memories, good and bad, and I wouldn't trade it for the world. 


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