Anthropomorphic Perfume
It is assumed that people leave traces long after they have left. The mere idea of them wafting from unwashed t-shirts and flowers, some fresh, some left wilting in their vase. It is a residue that clings, not to memory alone, but rather to the air itself. Sunlight that rises from thrifted couch cushions, carrying with it the faint acknowledgment of previous owners’ smoking habits and humid dwelling. You feel them. Hear them even, if you listen as you would to a favorite melody.
It is the scent of people, of life, distilled not in cold, clinical glass bottles, but from the weight they carry through their lives and the way they occupy the spaces within our minds and hearts. They linger like cigarette smoke, like warm sun-washed linen, like something beautifully intangible. This is an archive we all carry. A personal collection where each person becomes a fragrance in themselves: a living composition of presence, absence, and the small, miraculous acts of being loved.
Within my archive is the smell of early morning light slipping through stained glass, the soft murmur of a coffee maker disturbing an otherwise hushed home. There is a sweet, creamy hint of warmed milk, tempered by the earthy balance of freshly brewed coffee. It’s an elegant, nurturing air that fills the peaceful dawn. Then, teetering tots tumble down the stairs, carrying with them the sticky, waxy scent of adolescence, and the perfume bends to welcome them, messy and warm, into the peaceful morning. Her strength leaves an enduring sweetness in corners of the home, and an ardor that lingers in touch long after she has left. She is the scent of sunlight: warm, bright, cultivating, quietly essential. A persistent reminder of how beauty and tenderness coexist.
Photo courtesy of Elle Powers
At her side, another. One that is both contrasting yet complementary. Clean, deliberate, natural, like the scent that rises after a storm. There’s the whirring of a machine-like mind. It is metallic, complex, and constantly creating. You feel the aging of books, stained and fueled by coffee, exertion, and time. The pages are well-loved and full of charm. Within the ache of machinery, a warmth pools. It’s the softened, worn leather of reins, the oak of a cabernet let out to breathe, a new car, and an old book. There’s salt, too. Something mineral. It is not of an ocean, but rather, of sweat, of tears, of effort. His scent is of a lesson. A parable of hard work and endurance, of intelligence and humility.
Together, they dance and blend, producing an air that blooms with steady hands and promise. It also rises early, but on its own. At dawn, it is the morning dew decorating a freshly cut lawn, the stoic pine tree’s sweet sap, and the earth rousing from its short sleep. He is subtle. As modest as the hum of a warming truck engine, or the crunch of lightly toasted bread. Warm summer rain bouncing off a sunburnt neck, stinging, but full of relief. He is the scent of loyalty. Of austere kindness. He is one who always shows up, even if their presence is quiet.
And in the gentle orbit of people who stay, there is another fragrance. Though it is shaped not by blood, but by choice. It’s the warm lamplight that creeps through doors that don’t close, full of invitation. It rises from worn couches and childhood beanbags as the bouquet of stale buttered popcorn and midnight conversation. Lingering in the cracks of ceramic mugs and the sweetness of oversteeped tea, it fills quaint kitchens and bedrooms. They’re the scent of feral togetherness, of laughter that turns to salty tears and inside jokes. Together, they’re the musk of borrowed clothes, of shared lip gloss, and of bummed cigarettes. Shaving cream tinged with a hint of lipstick-stained white wine and chatter. Their scent feels like home. But it is not the home you come from; instead, the one you choose.
Photo courtesy of Elle Powers
Few others are like that. Few carry the same tenderness as the former. But they exist. Their warmth lives close to their skin. So close, you have to lean in to find it. It’s in the staining earthiness of red clay, of the smoky, dilapidated leather of a broken-in glove. There are notes of rose, not ornamental, but rather wild, the kind that grow stubborn against metallic chain fences and wooden barricades, obstinate and romantic and entirely sincere. He is the scent of faith. Not in the way that is holy or loud, but as an inexhaustible devotion. The kind that stays.
But he is not the final note. Before all of them, before him, her, them, and the ones for whom I have not yet spoken, there was one.
While some of her still lingers, much has changed. Her fragrance remains one of innocence, although it is no longer marked by credulity. Rusted swing handles. Sun-warmed, fair skin sticky with saltwater and time. Cinnamon gum and pen ink, of unmade beds and late nights. She smells of an early, unedited version of expectancy and ambition. There’s metal too. The taste of pennies on an inquisitive tongue, the quiet sting of learning the hard way. Softness still lives in her, but so does a staunch defiance. Her head is high, not in arrogance, but in belief. In what? She doesn’t exactly know. Maybe in love. Maybe in goodness. Or maybe in herself. She is a rough draft with an impending due date. Unashamed, unpolished.
Some scents linger, some fade, and some get lost with time. You’ll think you’ve forgotten them, but the archive is permanent. You carry them in your chest, lodged like pills you never intended to swallow, and sometimes, when you are very quiet, and your breath is deep, they rattle.
Photo courtesy of Elle Powers
Strike Out,
Writer: Elle Powers
Editor: Olivia Evans
Elle (L) Powers, possibly but not provably related to Austin, is an editorial writer for Strike Magazine GNV. She’s usually farming content for her digital Instagram at The Salty Dog or making a pretentious remark about film versus digital photography. Want to talk music, books, or the art of the perfect Instagram post, or just need someone to commiserate with about law school applications? Find her at Dog, @elle__powers, or spot yourself candidly on @ellesdigidiary.
