Scented

A house is never silent in darkness
to those who listen intently;
there is a whispering in distant chambers,
an unearthly hand presses the snib of the window,
the latch rises.

Ghosts were created when the first man
woke in the night.
~ J. M. Barrie

I am a light sleeper, a vivid dreamer. More than once, I’ve awakened in the still depth of night with a faintly remembered scent lingering in my nose. It’s a powdery scent, but it manages to be warm as well, and whisper soft. L’Aire du Tempe blended with Oil of Olay or Ponds, then mixed with sun, sand and sea, wet with iced tea, served with a plate of anisette cookies on the side. It is my grandmother, watching over the chamber of my thoughts I don’t even share with myself.

Most often, that scent comes when I’m alone save for the dogs, when the house has settled to the point where there are none of those pops or clicks that are normal “house sounds,” during the day but become ominous when something disturbs your sleep. It’s a calming scent. Loving, soothing, reassuring. Once in a while, when I’m sick or feeling really down, it’s accompanied by a feeling of a cool hand ghosting gently across my heated brow.

In my dreams, I reach out for that hand, clutch the gnarled fingers, admire the elegant nails, and I’m five years old again, and hiding under the grand piano, on the sculptured red rug, listening to the adults chattering in the dining room, or I’m twelve, and too old to dance barefoot, balanced on my grandfather’s feet, or I’m twenty, and certain I know everything about the world, and denying vehemently that I need my grandparents.

I miss them most at this time of year. She loved Christmas, he was our family’s Thanksgiving ringmaster. Comingled, their ashes are one with the soil in my garden, my mother’s garden, both my aunts’ gardens, the last remains now so much dust, stuck in a box in the guest room closet.
Strangers might find that a bit weird, or disrespectful, but I like to think of it as a sort of long-term visit that doesn’t involve a change in my routine.

Besides, my grandmother would appreciate it. She shared my nocturnal habit, and often wandered into her own guest room to read without waking my grandfather. It seems fitting, then, that a part of her lingers ever in mine.

Tags: Cafe Writing, Creative Nonfiction, Ghosts, Grandparents, Halloween, November, October, Prompted