Stale cigar smoke
in every velvet cushion, every vinyl
tile crevice, pushing
into edges of tweed carpet,
channels of stairwell paneling; in
ceramic ashtrays (I made
for Him in art class),
half chewed mud-brown
stubs like His pudgy
fingers pinching, grabbing,
the ends damp with
His saliva, His contempt.
Which scents do you associate with trauma?
What role does scent play in your self-care?
Do you seek out or avoid particular scents?
My grandparents were smokers, my grandmother’s cigarettes even after breast cancer, radiation, mastectomy at 40. Family lore: She quit after young-me implored “I don’t want your lungs to turn black.”
(The weight of that, that I was responsible for the well-being and OK-ness of adults. Just now connecting this memory to a thing my mother said many times: “a mother is only as OK as her least OK child.” I was responsible for her, we all were, an expectation that extended well beyond what I talk about here. And now, with a crew of five, statistics alone mean someone’s not-OK at some point. As mother, spouse, human, allowing myself to be OK when others aren’t, not trying to make them OK so I can be too – healthy detachment – still learning.)
The grandfather preferred cigars. He quit smoking but chewed them instead, dangling from his fleshy wet mouth. Their house reeked of them. The smell is still abhorrent to me.
And something else in there: I was a child. This was my family. My grandparents did grandparent things that grandchildren enjoy.
As a little girl I looked forward to visits, less so as I got older and his contempt for me-as-female grew stronger, alongside his expressed ownership of my body.
I’m still trying to reconcile this classic theme of childhood abuse, summarized in the fear that I did, in fact, sell my body for the price of a Strawberry Shortcake doll.
I haven’t smelled one in decades, but the thought of that scent too, in this moment, is making me nauseous. Hmm. I have some work to do.
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