[Fiction] Common Scents

Read the winning entry for our week of October 13, 2024 prompt, Portrait of a Room.

Common Scents
by Pam Makin

I cradle the small unobtrusive jar in my hands for a moment before unscrewing the lid. This earthy lanoline-rich cream kept her gnarled and spotted hands soft for decades. Her fingers always so gentle on my cheek as she inquired You good today? Now tell me true. Her touch, her gaze, her voice are in the scent of this velvety white cream.

“I’m good, Gran,” I say to the echoes of the empty room. “I’m here.” I replace the lid and put the jar in the cardboard box on the counter.

I gather her minty toothpaste, her rose water spritz, the dry cracked remains of her violet bath soap. All of her scents are still here. Somehow, she is still here in this unexpected lingering redolence.

In the shower alcove, I pop the top on the oatmeal and honey shampoo bottle. The sweet bakery-like smell is that of her hugs when I would nuzzle into her neck and let the stray grey strands of her braid tickle my nose. I inhale deeply, feeling the subtle fragrance wrap her arms around me again. Yes, she is here.

Her towels hang as she left them. They are white and a little worn, but clean. I take them from the rail and hold them to my face, breathing them in. Their scent is not her. I breathe in more deeply and realise I am smelling her garden. There is citrus and basil from the bed by her clothesline.

I fill the box with her most personal items from the medicine cupboard and vanity drawers. The story of a life can be told in this room. Hers was one of simple things, unfussy things. There are no expensive cosmetics and perfumes here, nothing pretentious. There is nothing without a purpose.

The bathroom is empty now and ready. I am not. I am neither empty nor ready. I am filled with Gran, filled with her fragrances and the memories they bring. To scrub all that away seems like an assault. But still, it must be done. And I must do it.

“I’m sorry, Gran.” I sigh. I look around the tiny room, it’s dated pink mosaic tiles, tri-fold shower door and bronze-brown plastic tapware. Without her, it’s just an old bathroom.

I unleash the acrid chlorine stench of bleach. In an instant, she’s gone.

A Note From Our Guest Judge, Penny Wincer

I think what really drew me to this piece was how simply it conveyed loss in the context of a single room. We don’t often think of bathrooms as being deeply personal spaces but we get such a sense of the relationship between the narrator and their Gran just from how she relates to the items in it in a very sensory way. But the real success here is in the conflict the narrator has in cleaning her Gran away, and the realisation that without her, it is just a room. Simple and very effective. 

About Pam Makin

Pam Makin is a writer living on the unceded lands of the Kaurna people, Adelaide, South Australia. She is known for her poetry, spoken word, and flash fiction. As a voracious consumer of the Arts, Pam often reflects on, or is influenced by, other forms. Her work has been described as “like chocolates, restorative and comforting, boxed neatly and offered generously.” Sometimes it’s personal. Sometimes it’s global. It strives at all times to be human. You can read more at pammakin.com.au

This piece was written in response to the prompt Portrait of a Room.