Jessie Spangler

It’s May in Chicago, which means the lilac bushes are blooming. The sweet, honeyed smell takes me back to the house I grew up in, to late spring afternoons spent outside, the anticipation of summer humming in the air.

The memory is so strong, I can see the huge bushes outside our front door, recall the hole under the patio where a family of chipmunks lived, and see my childhood dog lope through the backyard. I’m sitting in my old room, the window open and the sunlight streaming in, sitting on the floor writing stories in a notebook as the warm breeze ruffles my hair.

It’s strange how the scent of one flower brings up small details from years ago when I can barely remember what I had for dinner last week. It’s comforting, though, to think those memories can be brought to the surface so easily. The smell of corn tortillas brings me back to my grandparents’ house on the weekends, and one sniff of a body spray I still have from college reminds me so strongly of the sorority house I lived in, I swear I can hear my friends’ voices down the old, narrow stairs.

I wonder what scents will make me remember this time now—will it be the perfume I started wearing last fall? Or maybe the scent of lilacs will connect my memories like a chain, one I can follow from childhood to my twenties. If I take a moment now and breathe deep, will I be able to recall how the sun ripples off the Chicago river, even a decade from now? It’s these small details of my everyday that I’m most scared of forgetting.

I like to think I’ll remember, though. For now, I’ll tuck this scent into my memory, next to all the others.