On Scent

Mackenzie Kerber
Jul 20, 2017 · 2 min read

My grandfather’s aftershave smells like licorice. I used to think it stank, and would refuse his embrace at holiday dinners, pinching my nose with bony fingers as he walked past. By my eighteenth birthday, I had become accustomed to its dizzying sweetness, although I can’t be sure if this was a product of my continued exposure to the odor or if smoking had dulled my senses to the point that it became bearable.

My grandparents, as far as I am aware, always slept in separate beds. His bed, always on the right, always reeked of the aftershave, but my grandmother’s wept the subtle fragrance of her perfume. It was a sweet smell, too, but pleasant and floral. I found the bottle in a dresser drawer when my mother and I cleared out her room in the hospice. Even unopened, it emitted the gentle aroma of Hawaiian plumeria, listed on the box as its central note. I’ve kept the bottle for a little over seven years, and still spray it in my own dresser from time to time, always careful to return it to its box.

My mother has always preferred spicy perfumes. When I was a child, I would calm myself on her shoulder, inhaling deeply and tickling my nose with dark amber and persimmon. According to my father, she and I smell the same, an observation which fills me with a glimmer of pride each time I hear it, regardless of the acidity with which he laces it. He smells like saltpeter himself, and I still can’t stand it.

)
Mackenzie Kerber

Written by

(Screen)Writer/Editor/All-around mess

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade