Crying in the Crayon Aisle

The Sweet Scent of Nostalgia

It all started in the grocery store. I was simply going to pick up a gallon of milk and a jar of sun butter. As I entered the store, mission focused, I heard the “thunderstorm soundtrack” in the Produce aisle that accompanies the water spraying of all the veggies. That’s all it took for me to be plunged back into a nostalgia so all encompassing, that my attempt to hold it back, caused a tightening in my throat so that I began to feel faint from lack of air.

     When my daughter was little, we went to this grocery store often and she delighted in the thunderstorm, putting her little hands under the “raindrops” and squealing with delight. I cherished it then, and yesterday, it stabbed at my heart like a sword.

     I metaphorically removed the sword and continued on my two purchase mission. With jug and container in hand, paid for and put in my car, I decided to walk over to the crafts store, one store down. I’m a teacher, and I wanted to replace some worn out scented markers as my little students take such delight in smelling them, having me share that experience, and draw the most interesting art work.

     All was well, until I hit the crayon aisle. That scent, that Crayola Crayon scent, sent me reeling back to childhood. Sitting on the floor with Mom and my two sisters, coloring together. Mom always got us new crayons, insisting that “Pointed crayons work the best.” As if that memory weren’t enough to form large drops of salty liquid hanging on my bottom eyelids, the remembrance that my maternal grandmother, the one I loved so deeply and dearly, had a tin of crayons, which when opened, spread this sublime scent throughout the room, caused gravity to pull my tears of remembrance in streams out of my eyes, down my cheeks and on to my sweater.

     I could not contain this emotion. It took me over as I saw the faces of my daughter (away at a conference this week), my mother who is dying and has days to live and my grandmother, who left this earth in the early 1970’s…the three people who have meant most to me in my life…and I was sobbing in the crayon aisle. I hoped no one would come over to me. I did not want the comfort of anyone. I wanted this crying to stop so that I could purchase my damn markers and be on my way.

      Nope, crying continued, accompanied by snot. I found a balled up tissue in my coat pocket. It would not contain all the liquid I was excreting but at least it mopped up some of it. The rest, I am sad to say, had to be wiped on sweater sleeve like I did as a child. Hey, you do what you gotta do.

     With scented markers in hand (and maybe a few other things-after all, it’s for the children!), I decided on self-checkout to limit my human contact and any potential questions about my welfare.

     Oh nostalgia, you force against which I have no power, you are both the bain of my existence and a sweet delight. I am composed again, having let the flood gates open yesterday. My students will delight in our new markers, their noses will be dotted with the various colors as they take in the smell of each one. And I shall be ever thankful for my tender heart, for the people I love, for the melancholy and for the sweet students who will force me into the present.

Thank you for reading. Does scent make you nostalgic? I’d love to hear about it below.