Fragrance

I thought it had been lost, these memories. Try as I might, I could barely remember my home while I was in America. My memories were all blurry visions and muffled voices. Now, as the automatic doors shuff open, a mere tickle to my nose has called them all stampeding back to my brain.

That. That is the dry air carried by the cold ocean air. That is the scent of maritime pines, the dry dust kicked up by car tires and foot traffic. It draws me to the markets, ripe with people browsing the selection, where we would get my favorite blood oranges. Down the street, the restaurant with my favorite paella, sizzling scallops warming up my nostrils.

I remember now the look on my mother’s face, smile that crept up the corner of her mouth even as her eyebrows said “go wash yourself, you dirty child.” I remember now my brothers playing tag and my sister always running behind, wanting to join in the game. Tomas and his bike. Father and his mustache.

All of these memories lifted from my brain by the scent of my city. If I were not so unarguably happy now, I would shed a tear. I can smell it, see it, remember it at last. The brimming, familiar breeze is sending a message to me: “You are home,” it says. “Welcome home.”