A Sweet Aroma

I was making mental lists of all the things that I needed to get done by tomorrow evening at work. It caught me off guard as I walked home one night from another late night’s work. The smell wafted down on me in the cool of a city summer night. The faint sounds of the train in distance and the sight of city litter reminded me that I was indeed still in Astoria, Queens. I looked around and saw only my neighbor, the old Greek woman who was perpetually sweeping the side walk. She was muttering to herself in Greek, perhaps cursing the passers by who dared litter her sidewalk. I looked away and searched the gated front stoops of small houses as I walked. I tried to concentrate further on the origin of the aroma. Was that jasmine, honeysuckle? What was it and where was it coming from?

I breathed in deeply as I walked to the middle of my block and crossed the street. The sweet smell followed. The day faded into the recesses of my memory. I skipped up the front steps and unlocked the front door to my 2nd floor apartment that I shared with two friends. I was home alone. “They must be out somewhere,” I thought. As I closed the door and bounded up the steep wooden staircase, I was suddenly aware of the protest they made under my weight. I eased up; worried my landlord would complain about the noise at the late hour. I sighed as I realized that the garbage needed to be taken out. I didn’t need to look. I could smell it.

Readying myself for bed, I showered, brushed my teeth. I slipped into pajamas and picked up the book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez that was dog-eared on my night stand. I opened the window and was struck by the smell once more. I read for a while, unable to shake a feeling. Of what, I couldn’t be sure. It was a feeling with which I was unfamiliar. I closed my book an hour later and turned out the light. Sleep came immediately; a rare and strange occurrence.

Five years later, there I was. Packing the excess of my life into boxes, I thought about moving. I hated moving. I doubted anyone really enjoyed it, but I found myself annoyed that I had to start over. I’m resistant to change. It scares me, excites me and drains me. I wasn’t feeling well after all and the task at hand was a great stress. I decided that the rest of the packing would have to be handled by somebody else. I was spent and I was looking forward to a rest from the hectic weeks that had proceeded this day. I packed a few boxes into my car and drove off towards my new home. This was the 4th new place in 5 years. My head was swimming with the thoughts of unpacking and the dread of the thought of living out of boxes. I was mechanical in my driving and was surprised when I arrived at my new place in what seemed like record time. No one else was there. “They must have gone back to pick up the last truck load,” I assumed.

Unlocking the door, I stepped into chaos. Boxes were piled everywhere in random order. Power tools laid about the concrete floor, a reminder of the work still needing to be done. It was dusty and there was a faint smell of turpentine. I walked past the kitchen to look out the sliding glass doors. “This is home?” I asked myself. I went about looking for a glass that was clean. I turned on the tap and filled my glass with water. As I drank, I let out an exhausted sigh. Walking towards the bedroom I made an endless mental list of all the things I had to do the next day. I shook my head as if doing so would make it fade away. I was looking forward to taking a shower.

When I was done I crawled into bed and realized that the box with my glasses and books were still out in the car. I thought about leaving them there. I lay in bed trying to relax and find a comfortable position, but couldn’t. I swung my legs out of bed and looked for my flip-flops. Remembering they were packed away somewhere, I headed out the front door barefoot. Finding what I was looking for in the trunk of my car, I put on my glasses and picked up the box of books. I walked gingerly over the grass and suddenly stopped by the front door.

The smell filled my head with a rush of remembrance. I looked around trying to identify where it was coming from. The smell of gardenias had appeared out of thin air. I relaxed instantly and closed my eyes. “This is home. This is where He wants me.” I thought. I smiled to myself and walked inside. I put the books down in the overcrowded living room and proceeded to the bedroom. As I crawled into bed, I was suddenly struck by a feeling. The same one, that five years ago had no name. Ease.

I love gardenias. The sweet fragrant smell of them brings back a rush of memories and the reassurance that I am loved. I hadn’t known Him that night in Astoria, but He knew me. I know Him now. “Thank you Lord,” was all I could manage before I faded off into a peaceful sleep.