Smell stops me in my steps. I lean in, closer to the source, and take a deep breath. I’d like to say it elicits a memory but no story comes forward. Perhaps a feeling? Even that is inaccurate. Familiar and comforting—it wraps around my senses—pulling me to a past I cannot find. 

Another inhale. Inquisitive five-year-old eyes watch, Mother sniffing a shelter for waste. Garbage cans hidden within. Stacked wooden planks, neither new or old. Slightly damp. The memory I seek is stubbornly elusive. 

A quick catalogue of wood in my life: the dry and dead eucalyptus leaves scenting my walks between classes in seventh grade, the damp musty wood of summer cottages in Michigan having been closed for the winter, the splinters stuck in my six-year-old big toe running on a boardwalk stacked on sand dunes. I am left holding this fragranted familiarity with no place to put it. 

Reluctant to leave without unlocking the recollection waiting beyond this musk, I turn to my son and tell him to “Take a deep breath—this smell reminds me of being young.” Knowing he will not understand. Hoping that someday, years from now, when he comes across this same aroma on a walk with his child, he will have a spot to stow this feeling. He breathes it in, looks at me and says “that does smell nice.” And we walk on. 

Later, I sneak back to the spot, scouting specifics once more. This time with my youngest, too young to care why mommy’s nose is pressed deep into the slats. Nothing happens, allowing me to realize: not all feelings find their homes.