smells that save by sophia ortega

1. My favorite scent is both a color and a smell: Lavender. The color reminds me of the last few moments of a California sunset, purple hues shimmering on the ocean waves as the sun spends its final seconds above the horizon. The herbal smell instantly soothes my anxieties, reminding me of my mother. When I am sick, she places a damp washcloth gently soaked with lavender oil to calm me. As I packed for college 3,000 miles away from home, she handmade a beautiful display of lavender flowers for me to hang on my wall, an ode to the special scent. I carefully pinned it up in my freshman, sophomore, and now junior year dorm room. It hung on my wall as I struggled to make friends, as my smoke alarm went off, as I locked myself out on the first night of college. In times like those, I would glance at the lavender flowers and ache for my mother. Those flowers now hang on my wall as I adapt to the current chaos of 2020, a storm no amount of lavender could calm. 

2. My other favorite scent is both a taste and a smell: Vanilla. The taste of vanilla reminds me of sweet desserts and warm memories with my family. The smell makes me smile as it satisfies my sweet tooth with every inhale and reminds me of my twin brother. In many ways, Daniel and I are far from twins. He solves math problems and codes computers while I dance in studios and read novels. Daniel walks into any room and makes a friend while I’d rather blend into the background. But what we do share is an intense, undeniable love of vanilla flavored sweets. Whenever our mother finished baking a cake, we would race to the batter and lick every last drop of vanilla icing. We shared many desserts growing up, something I despised but later learned to cherish. Daniel was by my side on our seventh birthday as we took a bite of our vanilla cake, posing for a photo with frosting on our faces. He sat on the curb of Main Street with me as we enjoyed a vanilla soft serve at Disneyland. While lavender is a soft whisper, vanilla is a deep laugh. 

3. My last scent is both a sound and a smell: the ocean. My safe place, my constant in a world of rapid change. With each crashing wave I feel an overwhelming peace, a melodic sound that grounds me in the moment. As soon as I smell the salt water, I know the slightly fishy scent as a sign of home. I get my appreciation for the ocean from my father, a man who could spend all day on the beach if he could. On sunny days, he plants his chair in the sand and admires the waves as they crash and recede, crash and recede. His family, or Ohana, explained to him how the water is the pulse of the island, steady but alive with energy. He taught me how to search for sea glass, little gifts from the waves left washed up on the shore. But as a child, the waves were my enemy. The dark, murky water left my imagination creating monsters under the waves. Hearing the waves’ loud

crash left me confident my body would be crushed under the weight. Feeling the icy cold water lap at my toes felt like an invitation to my unexpected doom. Soon, my patient father explained how the water was home to the stingrays I loved at the aquarium. How the waves were controlled by the moon and were simply a motion, like waving to a friend or the wave in my hair. I grew to appreciate the refreshing water, a coldness that snaps my mind back into reality. Luckily, the ocean doesn’t hold grudges. We quickly became best friends despite our rocky past, my father chuckling as he watched us play. But every now and then, I remember the overwhelming vastness of the water, nerves sweeping over my body. I freeze and imagine those giant, towering waves. Maybe next time, I’ll look past the wave and admire the lavender sky, remembering purple flowers and kind whispers. I’ll think of sweet sundaes and laughs shared with my brother. I’ll recall sandy days with my father and realize my Ohana is a steady song within me. A long inhale, a brief exhale, and without even knowing it, the wave will have passed.