Essay #2

Have you ever smelled something in the air, random yet familiar, that set your mind into a whirlwind of memories, comfort, and calm? This is what happens to me occasionally. There are times, albeit few and far between, that I smell the sweet scent of my aunt’s perfume. Although sitting here, now, I cannot smell it, nor could I accurately describe the smell on paper or in my mind, but when this smell does come around me, I can identify it in an instant.


My aunt, affectionately known as Auntie Ellena, is one relative that I was ALWAYS excited to see. Not just because she always brought us gifts from abroad, but also because she represents a different side of my family that, regretfully, I never got to see or identify with as much as I would like to. She represents a different culture, and a different way of life than I am used to.
I always looked up to my Auntie Ellena. She was a wonderfully warm-hearted, jovial, genuine, and loving individual with such a distinct smell, I could easily pick it out in a crowd. Her personality was unmatchable. My aunt would come to America from Trinidad and spend what seemed like a million dollars to my young eyes and mind in local stores to buy toys, party decorations and supplies, games, anything se could get to put a smile on the faces of the children she was bringing these items back home to.
You might think, by this description, that my aunt had small children back home, or maybe that she was a teacher, stocking her classroom full of things needed to make any child enjoy school. Well, although I found out fairly recently that she did teach for a time, neither of these were actually the case when my Auntie Ellena was in the country shopping with me. She was an attorney in Trinidad, and a true humanitarian and philanthropist. Though she had no children of her own, there were many children who I can only imagine loved her as if she were a close blood relative. Between the partied she hosted at the local orphanage, or the child from Grenada that she supported (to whom most of the aforementioned items were split between), my Auntie Ellena, who once said that she was not intended to be a mother, but rather, to be Auntie, certainly had no lack of maternal love for children in general. Maybe that’s why my parents chose to make her the Godmother to their first born, otherwise known as, me. I loved my Auntie Ellena so much, and I was always so happy when I found out she would be making the trip up to the states. She was so much fun to spend time with, and I can remember sitting with her for hours in the extra bedroom across the hall from my own bedroom. There came a point where I had not seen her in several years. I missed her dearly, and was hoping that she would come up again soon, or that I could go down to her house in Trinidad to visit with her, my grandmother, and my other aunt on my dad’s side. Eventually, I found out that she was sick. Shortly after I found this out, in a matter of 2-3 months, she was gone. My Auntie Ellena died of cancer on September 8, 2005. Although I never got to say goodbye out loud, since her death, I have begun smelling her perfume randomly from time to time, and each time the smell comes to me, I get the same calm, contented feeling, and the same comforted smile appears on my face each time.


Similarly to when I smell my aunt’s perfume, feathers have a similar effect on me. Though these are very common objects, they have taken on a much more complex and sentimental meaning for me.
When my grandfather was in his last days, my mother had a conversation with him that ended with her asking him to send a sign every once in a while. Feathers came to be the chosen item. I guess she needed something to console her and let her know that he was still around and watching over her. Since then, this feather connection has extended to me as well. There have been several occasions on which feathers wind up in strange places, at strange times, and seemingly (to us at least) with symbolic meaning. For example, on the way to my grandfather’s funeral, a gust of wind came and a pile of several feathers swirled up into the atmosphere directly in front of us. There were no birds around at the time, and unless someone sat there plucking a bird to bits, I can’t think of any logical explanation of why there would be so many feathers in any given spot. Another time I felt that my grandfather sent me this kind of sign was when I was car shopping. I had been looking around for a while at different cars, and I finally narrowed it down to 3 different vehicles. I decided to take a test drive of the last one of these three, and at that point there was nothing, yet by the time I closed the door after the drive, there was a small gray feather lodged in between the windowpane and the rubber piece that connects to the door where the window sits. Needless to say, that’s the car I went home with.


I know that these things that I am calling signs and symbols may be far fetched to some, and to be honest, I sometimes wonder about it myself. Is it coincidence or reality? Am I just looked for these patters, or are they just appearing before me, truly signifying some otherworldly meaning? Well, although my scientific self wants proof, my spiritual self believes I already have my answer. I can’t force myself to remember the smell of my aunt’s perfume on command, and even though I hate birds and preset not to be around them, I find it hard to believe that there is any way so many feathers would accumulate in one spot, in front of our car on the day of my grandfather’s funeral. I guess maybe these could be argued as coincidence, but I have resolved myself to believe in the spiritual and emotional significance they bring to me. Maybe this is all we can do to cope with the death of loved ones. We hold on to what we need to, make the associations we need to, remember and feel what we need to in order to come to terms with death. Maybe this is all we can do to console ourselves and realize that life goes on, and that we have to keep going until it is our time to join those people who have passed. Maybe it doesn’t matter how we deal with death, but just that we deal with it. That we find some inner strength that makes it possible for us to remember the good times, forgive and forget the bad, and resolved to adapt to this new world that is less one human being who has touched our hearts in one way or another. Feeling that my relatives are around me, and believing that they are still watching over me and sending their love is what works for me. Maybe it’s not this way for everyone, but what matters is that we all find our own way, and grow to be stronger people from the experience of loss and recovery.