Sweating It Out

My head buried in my pillow, I wake to the smell of my grandmother.  It’s as if someone sprinkled lavender powder on my bed during the night.  I inhale love and generous smiles and sitting in the yard stringing green beans.

And then the dogs pounce on me.  They can’t wait to start the day.  They lick my face so I shoo them off.

I inhale again, but the lavender has evaporated.  Instead, I am treated to the aroma of bowels anxiously awaiting breakfast.  I wave my hand and groan myself out of bed simply to escape the odor.

My grandmother always smelled of lavender.  I don’t know if it was her lotion or if it was scented powder, but it is one of my strongest memories.  I wonder what aroma my grandchildren will associate with me.  Probably dog farts.

I truly hope they never awake with that smell on their pillow.

Sweat, I think.  They probably associate me with sweat.  I’m always running with or after my grandchildren.  Great, I’m going to be remembered by the smell of failing deodorant.

Or the smell of wine.  I desperately hope they don’t wake up one morning with the scent of cheap chardonnay on their pillow and think, That’s Nana!

I shower and spread on my Japanese cherry blossom lotion.  I rush off to scoop up my youngest grandchild and take him to the park.  I hug him tightly as I lift him into his car seat, hoping the scented lotion will seep into his memory.

It is a warm day and we cavort on the playground, running and climbing.  We laugh and pick up leaves and study ants.

I lift him into the car seat and I know the cherry blossom smell has long since worn off.  There it is again, the smell of failing deodorant.

Maybe, though, the smell of Nana’s sweat won’t be such a bad memory.