Smell Memories

Ever since that time when I was five I could never start reading a book without first smelling it. Even before I sat on the floor and untied the soft shiny ribbon I knew it was a book. It was one of those children’s scented books and I automatically sniffed at every page as I climbed Uncle Mahmud’s lap and started to read: This is Mary’s garden. The smell of wet soil twirled into my nose, fresh and grainy like rough sugar sprinkled on a cake. I reluctantly turned the page; I wanted the smell to go for ever but was welcomed with a sweeter odor, that unidentifiable smell of the little seed Mary held in the palm of her hand, strong as stone, yet soft as a grain of cooked rice ; the smell resembled nothing I knew back then.  On the next page a dwarf stalk of green popped out of the soil whose subtle smell jogged as a baby’s odor. The blooming plant on the next page fascinated me with yet another smell, fresh as a drop of dew, seducing as a lollypop, inviting as mother’s hug. The last page popped with a fully grown pink rose whose aroma danced around me, spreading long curly tails of scent that totally charmed me.