Time Machine

Dear J.,

I realize I may have to work backwards a bit in order to catch you up to everything I've missed. So bear with me over the next few entries. You are so kind.

Over the July 4 weekend, JB and I made an emergency trip to Indiana to hold an intervention. That in itself is a story. But, as a result of all the events that weekend, I returned home laden with bins of pictures and possessions that belonged to my mother and generations before her.
God was so good to us. We managed to recover quite a bit. We cannot believe how well these things have held up over time considering how badly they were treated (stored).

Our goal is to identify the pictures, scan them in and put our memories on CDs for safe keeping and then put together albums for protection of the original pictures. We have netted quite a few priceless finds.

My dad had been missing family pictures from his side along with pictures he had taken while in the military. We found those. We found a picture of his beloved dog, Tippy. Convinced he would never lay eyes on him again but in his mind, he opened a picture album I had sent in the mail to find his dog staring back at him. He longed to connect with my mother during a time when their love was new and had not yet been destroyed. He has been able to do that.

I wish I could say that I don't understand his undying love for this woman that treated him so badly, I can't. I need those same things. I have so many bad memories, that I have grabbed onto anything good.

Every few days or so I'll pull out a box and go through some pictures. I'm trying to sort them before scanning them. I run across important photos and I'll scan them and get copies printed. Put them on CD so that I can send them to Dad, hoping to relieve some of his anxieties over having given up his treasures so soon after having gotten them back. Mom lied to him. She said she didn't have them. That one of us kids had taken them. It hurt his feelings.

We also found two cousins on the Wing side of the family (my great grandmother's side). We had been sending them bits and pieces that we found as well.

Last night, I pulled out another box of pictures. Among the pictures were some of my mom's old nametags from when she worked at Kmart. Bank statements with cancelled checks. I can't bear to part with them. They were written in her hand and I need to keep hold of that. Then I found it. A bottle of her perfume. Wind Song. You know, "I just can't forget you, your Wind Song stays on my mind." I don't remember a time when my mother wore anything else. She always smelled of Wind Song. I could recognize her scent anywhere.

The perfume is old and I wouldn't dream of wearing it. Well, kind of. I stared at that perfume trying to figure out why I wanted to hold onto it so badly when I realized what I was holding.
I wasn't even sure what it would do, if it would "do" anything at all. It was hers. I knew that much. She hadn't worn perfume much in the last few years. She would always put it on when she got ready to go somewhere. So part of me associates it with leaving. But more, it was always on her, mixed with the lingering scent of her cigarettes. She never smelled bad....I suppose the perfume helped.

But before I knew what I was doing, I had opened the perfume, sprayed it on my forearm, lifted my arm to my face, closed my eyes, and very slowly, inhaled that sweet scent. I found myself transported through time. Suddenly, I was back home, kneeling beside my mother's chair, my head in her chest, my arms around her. My eyes are closed and I can hear the gentle wheeze in her lungs, feel her warm body as she responds to my hug, and I can hear her voice as she talks to me. I can't make out what she says, I just hear her voice.

I slowly exhale, keeping my eyes closed so I won't ruin this moment, and I inhale again, desperate for the scent to fill me up. It's almost like a drug. Then, suddenly, the tears well up in my eyes and I can't stop them from spilling down my cheeks. I'm flooded with a river of emotion, missing her so much it hurts. It aches. But I can't stop smelling the perfume on my arm. Somehow hoping that I can make her come back just through that scent.

Of course, reality won't allow me that much. But it is done. The decision is made. I've found a door to the past and I plan to keep it open. To my grieving mind, it is genius. I will keep the bottle and whenever I want to be with my mother for positive memories, I'll spray it on my arm. I'm even going to buy a new bottle. It will stay longer. This one was gone too quickly.

I never know where I'm going when I smell it. But I know I'm going back to a time when life was simpler. Back to a time when I didn't know alot of what I know now. Not always good times but a time when she was alive. A time when she was breathing and living and moving. A time when I could see her and touch her and the scent of her perfume makes it so real to me. It becomes more than a memory. It is a way to connect with her, if only in my mind.

I even sprayed it on my pillow, hoping that it would encourage me to dream about her. I didn't but it was worth a shot. I'm going to give it another try. What do you think J.? Do you think I'm crazy? I don't think so. I think I've found a new avenue to explore. At least it is something positive about my mother in the midst of so much negative.

I'll let you know how it works out. Until then, stay tuned. I can't wait to tell you about the dealings with the estate...you know, J., our family could make Jerry Springer easy. I just hope I never see one of us on there.