Kimberlee K.

I’ve been thinking a lot about smells recently, and how interesting it is that we can know and retain and understand so many smells, but the knowledge and memories associated with them are often only triggered when we physically smell them.

Trying to describe a smell is like trying to describe a texture. You can rub your fingers together, remembering, but without having something tangible to touch—or present to smell—you can’t get very far, especially if the person you’re talking to has never smelled or touched it.

But we still have those memories in our minds. And throughout the day, we can walk into rooms, or down the street, or in and out of stores and we can recognize and identify smells, because once we take that breath in—hey, I know that smell!

All that being said, today I want to tell you about some smells. To see if you can reach that place of smelling them without actually being able to smell them (at least not right now). To scratch that part of your brain that says, yes! Because sometimes it’s fun to reach out for that memory, even if we can’t quite touch it or smell it.

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Do you know this smell?

I am sitting on creaky metal bleachers taking turns between bites of a cheeseburger and a packet of sour straws. My hair is in a loose, ragged ponytail and I keep wiping at my forehead and tucking the loose strands into my visor. I’m still wearing my cleats, but I’ve pushed my high socks down to my ankles to let my shins breathe. My jersey is untucked and the eye black is smeared down my cheeks. The sun has started to set and lots of families are filing out of the park. It is getting quieter and quieter as the last few games of the day end.

“Ready?” my dad says, and I nod, even though my things are in an unorganized pile behind me, and it will take me a few minutes to gather everything.

I stick a sour straw in my mouth and tuck my glove into my bat bag, then I hear the four-wheeler pull out onto the field, dragging a metal grate behind it. The man driving is a coach still wearing his team’s jersey. He glances at his watch and then waves to a group of girls who yell, “bye coach!” from the parking lot. He makes loops around the field until it is neatly ironed out, erasing all the cleat prints, second base slides, ground ball trails and headfirst dives from the day.

Then the sprinklers turn on.

I slide my sandals on over my socks. I stand up and pull my bat bag over my shoulder. I take the last bite of my cheeseburger and throw the paper plate in the trash, and I put the packet of sour straws in my pocket. My dad and I meet up with my mom and my siblings, and we all make the walk back to the car, the air thick with the smell of wet, softball field dirt.

—

Do you know this smell?

It is a hot summer day and I’ve been inside for too long. The air conditioning has been blasting and I’ve walked in front of the oscillating fan more than once, sometimes to blow my hair out of my face, and sometimes to lean in close to the blades and speak in nonsensical sentences to hear the way the fan morphs my voice.

My mom suggests putting on my bathing suit so I can run through the sprinklers, so I hustle down the hallway to my dresser and pull out the first one I can find. I stand still as she applies sunscreen to my arms, legs, and face, growing more and more impatient to get outside. Then I take off at a full sprint, giggling with my sister in tow. I zig zag back and forth across the grass, making up elaborate scenarios in my head with each pass. Within seconds I am soaked, and though the water is cold, I only notice for a few seconds. My legs are covered with blades of grass and more than once my feet have wobbled underneath me. There’s dirt in between my toes.

I grow winded and decide to sit down for a break and a cherry popsicle. Then I tell my dad I’m thirsty. Since everyone is outside, he reaches for the hose and turns it on low. I take it from his hand and hold it up to my mouth. I smell it before I taste it—hose water.

—

Do you know this smell?

The morning sun hits my face and I open one eye, wondering what time it is. Relief floods my body when I realize it’s Saturday, but I hear someone moving around in the kitchen. I curl up on my side and close my eyes, listening to the pots and pans clang and the cabinets open and shut. I hear the engines of cars on the road through my open window. People are awake and moving but I just keep laying there, still.

I grab my phone and take a small scroll through social media. I check my email. I read a text but don’t respond to it yet. Then I have to pee.

I shuffle my way to the bathroom, rubbing my eyes and stretching my back. I dare not look in the mirror just yet. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and make my bed. I put on some pants and then open the door to the living room.

The sliding door is open and a nice breeze is coming through. The kitchen light is on, but the rest of the space is lit up by the morning sun. I stretch again, I yawn, then I take a few steps forward.

Then it hits me.

Chocolate chip pancakes on the griddle.