The Smell of Spring

Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Often enough to wonder why bad people seem to have it so good. Of course, when bad things happen to bad people it feels like it's what they deserve—we don't give it a second thought. But those good eggs in life, when they get cracked, we notice. We want to repair all the cracks and scoop up all the juices and keep it protected. And when they can't be saved, we write posts on Facebook, write in our journals, pour over old photographs and maybe find some old letters…or write a blog post. It still hurts no matter what we do, but hurting isn't always a bad thing. It hurts because it was good, because it mattered.

I'm writing this as a way to deal with grief. As an amateur writer, this was the first thing that came to mind. 

For privacy reasons, I won’t be using any names other than my own. I want to be respectful to all involved, especially to those we have lost and their loved ones. If you know, you know. If you don't, then I hope you can at least take something away from my story. 

The following is as accurate as my memory will allow. Most importantly, it is true to me.

The Bad News

I am no stranger to loss. It seems to follow me wherever I go, lurking behind every corner, ready to strike at those I love. Sometimes it plays cruel tricks, makes my heart sink with a close call.

Recently, I lost someone very important to me, a person whom I hadn't been able to have a real conversation with since around the beginning of the pandemic. She’d moved out of state and, as it happens sometimes, we fell out of touch. We shared a few texts here and there but nothing of real substance. 

It was around ten at night when I heard the news. I was watching TV before bed when I got a notification on my phone. A friend from high school had heard about an incident and felt the need to text me. When I opened the message all I could see was my friend’s name next to the words "committed suicide".

My body went numb as I read the message over and over again. I went to google, scoured the search results. Maybe it was all some kind of sick prank, or maybe I’d misread the message. That's when I came across the obituary, a final blow that took the air out of my lungs. I hesitated a moment, lingered over the page, unsure what to do. My brain hadn't caught up with the information it just received. I was in the eye of a storm, oddly calm. Then it passed, and the storm hit.

I crawled into bed with my boyfriend who held me and comforted me. He didn’t know what else to do, he’d tell me later. He knew as well as I that words and gestures only go so far in moments like that. I was awash in emotions that seemed to change every few seconds. Whereas some people traverse the stages of grief over weeks or months or years, I went through it all in a matter of minutes. Anger, sadness, bargaining, despair - they seemed to hit me all at once. Maybe because I’ve been in this situation before, or perhaps my brain is just wired that way. First, I was distraught, and couldn't believe what was happening. My heart was a pane of glass struck by a sledgehammer, shattered into a thousand sharp pieces. I felt there wasn’t a way to put them back together again. Then, frustration and anger took over: All she had to do was reach out; instead, she left us here to deal with the aftermath, to mourn her in our helplessness. In between were moments of calm, forgiveness, and maybe even acceptance. It hurt too much to blame her. Afterall, she had dealt with enough in life. All I wanted now was for her to feel loved. I wished I could tell her as much, hold her shoulders and shake her and just say, “I love you. Please don't go.”

We lay there for a while, my boyfriend’s arms wrapped around me, until I worked up the courage to contact a close friend to pass on the news. We shared a moment of grief and, as is our nature, a happy memory, too. We needed to laugh, even if it was "too soon for jokes," as she put it through tears. We exchanged “I love you’s” and reminded each other we were always available to talk, even if we don’t see each other often anymore, and a text is a rare thing these days. In our grief, we knew implicitly that we’d always be there for each other. And what better a reminder than to reach out to those who matter most every once in a while. I put down the phone, kissed my boyfriend goodnight, and struggled to find sleep.

The next morning as my eyes blinked open there was a moment before it all came back to me—a brief, wonderful moment when the horrible events of the previous night were merely a bad dream. Then, all at once it came rushing back and I had to tell myself that it had in fact happened, that I hadn’t just dreamt it. 

As the day went on and my shift at work ended, I found myself digging through old pictures and scrapbooks. I noticed something odd: the last page in my high school scrapbook was thicker than the rest. Something had been stuffed into the sleeve behind a photograph. I looked inside and found an envelope I’d placed there containing letters friends had written me at the end of our senior year. I thumbed through the pages, one by one. Then I found hers, and my heart jumped into my throat. I’d forgotten about this letter, yet my past self had made sure that one day I'd find it. I'm infinitely grateful he did.

It was a goodbye letter she’d written to me on our last day of high school. As unbelievable as it would seem, it felt as if she’d written this letter so that on this day, at this moment, I would find it again, when I needed it the most. Maybe some magical part of the universe sent it back to me. Maybe that's the grief talking. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

In it she describes how she hates goodbyes, and hopes that this letter won’t be a goodbye at all, but rather a kind of “until next time” moment in our lives. As it turns out, despite a long hiatus while we figured out our lives after high school, we would eventually reunite and continue our wonderful friendship. We sure did have some great adventures together. In a chance encounter, we met at a concert once and rocked out together. Another time, I had her over for dinner and a Lord of the Rings binge-watch marathon. We would meet up with our mutual friend when she was back visiting her sister, and go to the bars in the town where we grew up. She even invited me to her wedding, and of course my date was that same mutual friend we had. I was honored that she invited me, and I remember seeing her in her dress and thinking she was absolutely gorgeous. We would swap books and have long discussions about them, discussions that invariably turned into long musings about life. She always made sure to express our importance to her, and ended every meeting with “I love you”. Despite never being much of a hugger, we always made sure to hug our hellos and goodbyes—or rather, our gestures of “until next time.”

All these things came back to me as I read her letter. And something else. There’s a short passage toward the end, a few brief lines that reminded me of a memory I’d forgotten. It was a moment we shared in childhood, something I felt I could share here and is the reason I started writing this in the first place. I’d like to share this memory with you:

The Smell of Spring

I grew up in a small lake town. You know the type: small enough that most people know each other, but big enough that you may not run into the same people every time you walk downtown, just every once in a while. It’s surrounded by several lakes, with an historic, quaintly charming downtown sandwiched between. An old-fashioned American Main Street runs through it, lined with original buildings that have been repurposed these days into restaurants and little storefronts. Subdivisions press in on all sides, seem to grow bigger and wider with every year. But people seem forever drawn to that quaint little downtown. When the sun sets on the lake, the light seems to hit the waves just right, creating a show of rippling sparks which sailboats glide over into the distance. There's a beautiful man-made waterfall just off the main road, and homes that are well over a hundred years old, white with large pillars and black gates guarding the driveway and gardens seemingly manicured by horticulturists. But these homes are where the wealthy live, the boaters and bankers and doctors, not at all like the small subdivision I grew up in.

My grade school was equally small, with miniscule class sizes that all but forced you to make friends with your classmates. I had a pretty awesome crew in those days. My parents always called them "the gang,” and boy, those were the days. I was very lucky to have them. 

She was someone I’d always known, and we spent a little time together in grade school. We would play at recess with a few other friends, and though there were two playgrounds at our school, we often hung out in the large grass field under a gigantic oak tree. Its roots protruded out of the ground and created an alcove of sorts, as if the tree was stretching out protective arms as we huddled underneath. I always imagined it was sentient and knew we were its kids to protect and play with, like something out of a Shel Silverstein story. And we played games — Gremlins or Twister, or others based on movies we loved. One in particular, the Evil Dogs, was pure childhood imagination at work. 

We would station ourselves under our tree—our base, if you will—when suddenly one of the Evil Dogs, who to my memory was always played by one particular boy at our school, would appear. Snarling, with glowing red eyes, he would pounce and take my friends, the good dogs, hostage one by one. I would be alerted to the ongoing events and jump into action, taking on that evil dog and eventually bringing my friends home safely. Only by some sinister magic would that same evil dog return day after day, an arch nemesis, who always had a way of escape, and never gave up his mission. But there I was, always playing the role of the protector, keeping my friends safe and the evil at bay. It’s a role I seem to have taken into adulthood, always striving to keep my friends and family safe, and constantly worrying whether or not everyone is alright. 

It wasn't until high school that we became inseparable. She was the kind of person who was always nice and willing to talk to you no matter who you were. I never heard her say a bad thing about another person, yet she would often overthink everything about the way she looked or acted. Not that she was conceited; rather, hypercritical, as if she thought she wasn’t good enough the way she was. I remember her straight blond hair, the way it almost looked white under the sun. As she grew up she experimented with curls and dark red dyes. These changes pleased her, but only briefly, and it was back to the drawing board. 

In grade school she was told to start wearing glasses. She came in clutching them nervously in her hands one morning, afraid of being picked on. She refused to wear them. I turned to her, ushered her to put them on. “Just try them out,” I said. “You need them anyway.” After some hesitation she reluctantly put them on and looked up at me. She looked just as beautiful with or without. I told her that glasses were just another thing she could use to express herself, and that they looked amazing on her and she shouldn’t be afraid to wear them. I wore glasses, and naturally I wanted for us to "be cool together.” She would go on to wear glasses for the rest of her life. And you know what? She rocked them. She had a particular style that was both cool and kind of nerdy, and it was uniquely her.

Most of my elementary school days are a blur. But there is one particular day I will hold dearly the rest of my life. It had been a long winter, though most winters seem long until the next one. It was springtime, and our class was out at recess. I was working with my teacher on something and had to stay behind while the others played in the schoolyard. I often needed a little extra help, for I was never a very good student. But I always loved my teachers, so I didn't really mind hanging out with them, even if it meant having to miss recess.

The time passed slowly and my teacher got called away. She told me to stay put and keep working. Naturally, the moment she left the room I got up out of my seat and went over to the window. My classmates were at the front of the building playing in the grass or on the playground. The window I stood at looked out over the back of the school, and so it was quiet. I remember clearly how beautiful the day was, the sky clear, the sun shining down on the school grounds, warming the black top. The grass wasn’t fully grown in, but some green was starting to peak though the yellow fields.  

I opened the window and stared out across the grassy field, budding trees just starting to get their leaves back. I closed my eyes and breathed in, and smelled a sweet perfume that I have to believe everyone who lives in a temperate climate knows well. It's one of those rare smells that immediately makes the dreary days of winter seem so long ago. There is perhaps no better way to describe it other than a true breath of fresh air, like coming up for air after sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool.

At that moment, I heard a familiar voice: "What are you doing?" I turned to see my friend standing in the doorway with a quizzical look on her face. I laughed, patted the ledge I was sitting on and asked her to join. She jumped up beside me and I pressed my face into the window screen. 

"Do you smell that?" I asked her. "Come on, press your face here and breathe in. Do you smell it?" 

She eyed me, uncertain. “What is ‘it’?” 

"The smell of spring!” I answered. “Isn't it beautiful?" 

She stared a moment longer, perhaps a bit skeptical, then breathed in deeply. She turned to me with the widest grin I’d ever seen, and we laughed.

One small moment. Only years later when I was in high school did I even remember this moment, and then I forgot about it all over again until now. But she never forgot. It stayed with her, that small moment.

In her letter she wrote: 

"To the boy who showed me spring, who saved me from the evil dogs at recess in elementary school, who convinced me that glasses were the coolest thing ever. And now, to the friend who listened when I needed it, who showed me enough TV shows that I was overwhelmed, who showed me some of the most wonderful books I have ever read, and has been the best friend I have ever made in high school..."

Little did I know that my silly observation was something she would remember for the rest of her life. Nor did I realize that a small comment I had made, telling her how good she looked in glasses, gave her the confidence to wear them when she was afraid of looking like a dork. I had no idea that just listening to her meant so much to her.

The greatest gift she ever gave me was this letter. Rediscovering it ten years after she gave it to me, just days after her death, reminded me of how important all the little things in life are. Too often we think the small moments in life don’t add up to much. But people remember what you do and how you made them feel. Never forget that. 

We always have the choice to be kind. 

This is the only bit of that letter I will ever share. The rest is for me, and me alone. I have to imagine that is the way she would have wanted it. But I had to share this part of our story, if only to demonstrate that kindness goes so much further than we think. 

To my friend: I'm sorry that we weren't as close in the last few years. You never stopped being my friend, and I have and will always love you. You will always be in my heart.

To those of you who are struggling, remember there are people in the world who love you, probably more than you know. Reach out to friends and family, even if you haven't spoken in weeks or months, or even years. Take a moment to step outside, smell the air, and remember that life can be beautiful. The winters may be long, but spring will always come. 

Rest in peace, my Friend. I love you always

Acknowledgement

I wanted to extend my deepest thanks to Bijan Salamati, the English teacher, for his support and editing skills. He was there for me when I needed it most, and helped me immensely in my writing process.