Sundays
There are scents that rekindle the memory
There are smells that whet the appetite
And when they hit you from nowhere
Like a cold wave on a warm summer day
You plunge back to childhood memories
Of a younger girl back when
She was five, when she was ten
And you keep counting backwards until you are sitting
Once more in the front steps of your new, unfurnished house
Butter cooking in the pan
The smell drifts upstairs, strong enough
To rouse you from the deepest of sleeps
Waking up you head for breakfast
Fix a quick cup of coffee
And you remember early mornings
With your grandfather in the store
The strong but sweet smell of coffee
In the early morning light
Mingling with the delicious vapors coming
From freshly baked pan de sal
Oozing on the sides with melted Dari Crème
Mouth watering, you taste butter like a dream
You remember, your ears tingle
The bell tinkles, a sound from afar
Yet you hear it suddenly
A sound only kids can hear
With silent tenacity
It’s manong selling that sweet pink iced snack
Lathered with chocolate syrup and powdered with milk
Scramble! You shout, and scramble out
To get five pesos from Nanay to buy your afternoon delight
Inside you see your baby cousin being fed
Something white and creamy
Cerelac, you whisper and your tongue remembers
As you recall eating half of your baby sister’s meal
You laugh and head towards the store
Jingling the remaining coins in your pocket
Wishing Manang sells little square caramel candies
Wrapped in brown foils
You wish for small, bright red cherry gums
You wish for ice cream with bread and marshmallows
You end up buying nothing
You come back home, the toddler plays
On the floor, powder gleaming on her neck and skin
Johnson’s, for sure
Picking her up and tossing her in the air, she giggles
And her special baby scent lifts off her skin
Mixes in the air and induces nostalgia for your childhood
She plays with your stuffed toys and discovers
How comforting it is to snuggle close to their fur
And just go to sleep with a hug from Mother
It is hot and you yearn
For pine-scented breeze and the feel of pine cones
On your hand, freshly picked from the ground
It is hot and the baby falls asleep surrounded by furry friends
You turn the fan on and you turn a page
Of your Harry Potter books
Their spines looking as if they have never been read
But you know the story and the scent of the paper by heart
And as you write this down
A fragranced pen traces ink all over the blank sheets
You remember countless autographs and biographies
“What is your motto?”, “Your first love?”
Filled up in grade school, forgotten by high school
You remember so many days in a single Sunday
And you are suddenly happy
For you know you are older
But your heart remains young.
Note: This is for an assignment in my Psych 101 class, scents and foods that remind me of my childhood. It's not a poem. It just pretends to be one because of all the cut lines and the attempt for rhymes and internal rhythm stuff. But yeah. If you say it's a poem, thanks. I am flattered. :D