Blocking the dazzling sunshine pouring on my face, I was wondering if there is a special scent of each month, the month of June would be either fervent or refreshing, or the mixture or alternation of the two.
The scent of a hot summer day was mingled with the willow twigs, waving in the warm wind with cicadas’ chirping. It was left over in the rugged red brick path to my grandma’s home. It was forgotten in the middle of a leisure drowsy nap in the afternoon.
The scent of June is light and heavy to me. It is buried deep in my mind but left clues for me to trace. I forgot it every morning when I rushed into the metro station, when my sweat dropped onto the running machine, and when I improvised my English signature on a receipt.
But all of a sudden when the Skype rang, when I stared at my mother’s face on my screen, all of the things felt very heavy. Her little pots of succulent plants, her recent news that I didn’t know, and her smile reminded me the scent of home.
Closed my eyes, I could feel the smoothness of a hand-made rayon dress, the stickiness of my tongue on the Old Peking sugar popsicle, the sting of a new scrape inside of a new pair of leather sandals…those senses came back to me in gaps of time as a pleasant surprise.
When the phone screen turned dark, when I ripped off the painful heels from my feet, when I closed my sore eyes, I could still trace the unique scent of home at the other side of the world. It kept fiddling with the softest, deepest place in my heart.