Lilacs remind me of home because of "Laura the Lilac Tree," which my dad planted in our front yard and so kindly named after me.
My brother has a tree too, but his is far less pretty, althought it does has a scent of its own- the James Fir.
Another scent that brings a smile to my face is that of certain people who mean a lot to me. You can't lay on the couch without thinking about my dad, because the scent of his aftershave is always on the pillow.
At work, when I'm trying to focus on getting some things done, suddenly I'm thinking of David because the guy sitting next to me is wearing the same cologne as him.
One smell, though, haunts me to this day.
I don't know what it is, but it reminds me of a horrible accident I had to cover recently, where a girl fell asleep at the wheel of her SUV and rolled the vehicle. Not wearing her seatbelt, she was thrown clear. The two boys wearing their seatbelts escaped with minor injuries.
When I arrived at the scene, her body wasn't completely covered. Her arm was hanging out, covered in what looked like a flannel sleeve, and a pool of blood below her was still visible. Shortly after more emergency personnel arrived, they covered what was still showing with a Betty Boop beach towel- the only thing they could get their hands on would be my guess.
It was the first time I'd seen a dead body. At least one that had not yet been prepared for a funeral.
The road was cluttered with debris- white tennis shoes, a red plastic crate (possibly for carrying books), a purple backpack. The vehicle, a red Blazer, rested on its top- the windows smashed in and the steel frame twisted.
My body shivered a bit, filled with a creepy feeling I cannot describe.
The smell on the scene that day was sickly sweet, yet bitter. Almost like rusted pennies, or what I would expect blood on scorching pavement to smell. There was, I'm sure, some odor from the vehicle that had been totaled, along with the sweat of the emergency workers and the exahust from the line of cars waiting to pass mixed in...
Whatever it was, I get a whiff of it now and then and the pictures flood back into my memory.
Although her name is printed in the article, I knew nothing about the victim at the time I left work that day except that she was likely 17-years-old. For me, it was better without a name at the time. That way, the accident was just my job- not the tragic loss of a person with family and friends and a life that was taken away too soon.
I never forget the names of the people who've died that I have had to cover- Keith Smith, of Jerseyville, who was hit by an oncoming car while his father worked to tow his car from a ditch; Roger Holyfield, of Dow, who died the day after being Tasered by Jerseyville Police; Gene Ready, of Grafton, who was run over by a woman exiting the Grafton Ferry while he was working; but she's different.
I actually saw her. That makes it more real, if that makes any sense.
Read the article in The Telegraph
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