Tracy Grinstead-Everly
Vanilla is the scent of rape.
I have tried many times to make it NOT that,
to make it the scent of nurseries and holiday baking,
but it won’t work.
No, it is the scent of decades-old memories
that still sometimes wake me in the night and catch me off guard,
stealing my breath
and almost knocking my feet out from under me
in bath and candle shops in the mall.
It was the scent used to freshen the air in his mom’s not-that-nice-but-all-we-can-afford-since-I-finally-worked-up-the-nerve-to-leave-your-abusive-dad’s house.
It was the scent that battled the never-quite-covered-up mildew aroma
that hit you when you entered the front door,
the door that always closed behind me with a bang
that never ceased to startle me,
no matter how many times I heard it.
Maybe it was less that I was surprised by that noise,
but that despite my better judgment
I hoped each time that perhaps this time it would shut quietly, gently,
or someday let me do the closing.
It was the scent I breathed in deeply afterward,
to try to focus my racing brain,
slow my pounding heart,
and dry my torrent of tears to a trickle
so I could smile convincingly
and pretend everything was fine
so I would be allowed to leave.
Vanilla is the scent of rape.