Aunty Smell

Aunty Smell

I had never given much thought to death. That was until a random day in kindergarten. It wasn’t a crazy day, there wasn’t a thunderstorm, it wasn’t cloudy. It was just a normal April day. The sun was shining and the birds were chirping. It was nap time and all I could think about was a conversation I had that morning with my mom. She had just told me that my neighbor died.

“What do you mean she died?” I asked, confused.

“That just means that you can’t see her again and that she is in heaven.”

“Oh.”

Most people’s existential crises come later in life. Mine was in the first grade. At the time, I didn’t have the words for what I was feeling. But looking back, I thought that one day, I could never see my neighbor again, and then I realized that I would die too. We all will — my mom will, my dad will, my sister will, my grandma will — and some are closer to death than others. We never know when or how. Every day we live we’re at risk of dying, and that risk never goes away. Why was I put on this earth? Why now? What is the point of everything, if it’s all going to come to an end, why keep on going knowing that you can die tomorrow? I could die today, and that would be it. Radio silence. No more me, no more life. I wouldn’t be able to fulfill the life I always wanted. Why?

I didn’t think much about death again until the day Daddy told me Jason died.

I was half asleep in the freezing car as Daddy was driving me to school when he told me that Jason died. I’m in the passenger seat, staring at the freshly polished black leather seat ahead of me. He had just picked up a passenger, and I could still smell the perfume she had on her. 

This smell brought me back to the warm days in kindergarten, surrounded by my favorite teacher. It was a floral perfume, but with a hint of musk, and the smell instantly jolted me awake. It was as if I was zapped back to life. This was a scent that I smelled every few months, a scent that I would briefly smell when strangers walked past me. A scent that I would always try to find the name of and buy, but always fail. After a while, I noticed it was only worn by middle-aged black women, and I would now label it as an “Aunty Smell”. I’ve smelled this scent countless times, but I still didn’t know the name. The few times when I saw Jason, he had the Aunty Smell. I never understood it, but it made me instantly like him. 

As Daddy drove, he began telling me countless stories of Jason and who he was as a person. I’m hearing stories of things they did back in Jamaica and what it was like growing up with him. Daddy’s voice was filled with nostalgia, almost getting my attention, but I still wasn’t listening. As much as the Aunty Smell woke me up, I was ready to go back to sleep. 

I was so bored. I didn’t know this man, and the stories felt distant, like an echo of someone I had never met. I’ve met him about two times in my entire life. He couldn’t even tell the difference between me and my sister. This man doesn’t know me and I don’t know him. I know he’s my family, but why should I care? I soon heard my name shouted. He didn’t realize I wasn’t paying attention until now, and he was mad. Daddy’s temper made every conversation with him feel like walking on eggshells, one wrong word and he might explode.

“Yes, Daddy?” I said anxiously.

“Did you hear anything I said?” he said annoyed.

“Yes.”

“A million ways to die — choose one.”

Daddy’s words stuck with me, even as time passed and the people around me changed. Every now and then, death would return — unexpected and cold — like a whisper in the quiet.

It was a lonely summer night when I found out that Cameron Boyce died. Mommy was fast asleep in her room, and Kayla-Marie was at a sleepover. The only sounds were the ticking clock, the low hum of the air conditioner, and my own thoughts. I was restless, tossing and turning under the covers in the room filled with cold air. I knew the thoughts I was having were illegal in my household. What happens when we die? Do we really go to heaven or hell? What happens to our minds, our souls? Our body is dead, but what happens to the spirit that consumes it?

Alex was always the black sheep of the family. She was a scientist and strayed away from Christianity. Mommy didn’t like me staying with her too long, scared her unholy thoughts would transfer to me. I always loved Alex, she was one of the coolest people I have ever met. I had just returned from the pool with her, and we had been walking for half an hour by now. 

“Alex, what happens when you die?” I asked hopefully, my voice barely a whisper, yet filled with desperation.

She paused for a moment, looking at me with a mixture of concern and caution. “Kelsey, you know your mom doesn’t like when I talk about this type of stuff with you,” she said.

I didn’t care. “Please, I want to know.”
She sighed as she thought of her answer. 

“Nothing,” she simply said.

“What do you mean nothing?” I asked, confused.
“You see nothing, you hear nothing, you smell nothing, you feel nothing — you are nothing,” she says with a hint of sadness in her voice like she had to come to terms with this harsh truth.

For a moment, I was silent, letting her words sink in. 

“Okay… think about it like this. Have you ever thought about what you felt like before you were born?”

“No, I guess I never have,” I said, taken aback by her question. 

Her words echoed in my mind long after I left her side, a strange and unsettling thought that lingered.

“A million ways to die — choose one.” A quote that my father says, whenever I do something dumb or dangerous. It always brings back the gut-wrenching memory of that freezing morning in the car. 

Was death like Aunty Smell? Something that I always tried to understand, something that always came back to haunt me every few months? Was it something that I would have to face, but never fully understand? Something that drifts in and out of my life. Something uninvited, unforgettable. It lingers, just like death does; subtle at first, then suddenly everywhere, filling the air around me before fading into memory again.

I soon forgot about my neighbor, Jason, and Cameron Boyce. Death was like that scent. It was easy to forget, until it filled every corner of the room, every thought in my head. 

I used to think I needed to understand death. That if I asked the right questions or listened closely enough, it would all make sense. But now I think maybe death isn’t meant to be understood at all. Maybe, like that scent, it’s meant to be felt. To be carried with us quietly in our memories, our fears, and even in our love. It’s a part of the rhythm of life, present even when we don’t want it to be.

Maybe I’ll never know what that perfume was called. Just like I’ll never know exactly what happens when we die. But I know how both make me feel, and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

Death was Aunty Smell. It’s familiar, mysterious, and unforgettable. And just like the scent, it reminds me that I’m still here. Still breathing. Still alive.