My Smell

It is Tuesday morning. Tuesday is a pre-school day. Tuesday is a hurried day, a dirty dish next to the empty dishwasher day, a fight to the cold car seat day. Tuesday mornings are crooked, and false; goal oriented only. Whatever other tasks I may abandon for my afternoon return, I always make my bed. I woosh past myself in a frenzy to do so, and realize that I smell both old and new at the same time; wintergreen and wild rose tangled up with decaying gums and Ben-Gay. This alarming smell, my smell, forces me to halt my insane rush. I sniff again, but the lingering scent has dissipated. I flap my arms, waving them wildly at unseen attacking birds, and send waves of warm air spurting up my nostrils. There it is again; age…responsibility…worry…anxiety. Where had my carefree scent of sweat and licorice and freshly cut Spring grass gone? I collapse onto my carefully made bed, saddened by the aroma of self-discovery. I am not a gypsy dancing barefoot in the moonlight. I am not a ragged wreck chasing down a tennis-ball-footed walker. I am lost in between, struggling in the surf, tiptoes clutching the sandy bottom. I guess this is the smell of motherhood.

My Smell

cockatoo

Liberty, United States

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Artwork Comments

  • Sally Omar
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