The scent is faded now. That unmistakable odor of Old Spice deodorant. The stick is half gone, last used almost nine months ago by my husband. It remains one of the most visceral memories I have of him. When we first met as teenagers, and after we got over the nervousness of revealing uncomfortable or embarrassing personal information, he told me he sweated a lot. He tried several different types of deodorants and then one day, an ‘old guy’ at work recommended Old Spice. From that day, he not only swore it was the best thing ever, but used it every day for the next forty five years. Even through his last, painful days when he could barely stand up, let alone wash up or put on deodorant.
I’ve gone through all his clothes and donated most of them. I kept a few things – the last shirt he wore, still smelling of him ever so faintly. A sweatshirt he liked, a golf shirt I like to wear. And, in one of those embarrassing personal information dumps, I’ll admit that after he died, I would open that deodorant every morning and take a deep breath. A deep breath of him, his willingness to share even the simplest part of himself, his essence, his goodness, his memory.
The frequency of this act has diminished. From an everyday ritual that brought tears and left a great weight on my heart, it’s now an occasional thing that conjures his welcome presence. And brings a small smile to my face as I hear his voice, his laugh, his footstep. The scent of it is fading, and yet it’s still enough to steal that memory from the ether and deposit it in my brain to relish. I’m beginning to ask myself if I’ll buy another one when this one no longer exudes that spicy combination of vanilla, cinnamon, citrus and who knows what else. The answer is, I don’t know. Do I need that smell to conjure him? Is it just a comforting, unconscious and effortless way to remind me? Maybe, perhaps. It’s a simple enough thing to do and feels like a connection I don’t need to break.
J. Gardner Hurd 