American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 24
Play-Doh to Whiskey
Hannah Orlando
The first scent I remember is salty Play-Doh and
crayons, before days of rain and wet hay with a side of
wet dog, grassfire smoke, and bird feather dust; Tabu,
my mother’s perfume: vetiver, rose, orange blossom;
in the winter near the heat of a wood-burning stove,
cucidati, anginetti, and other cookies jived to Louis
Prima with a fresh cut pine tree, clove oranges, and
cinnamon-scented pinecones; there were days spent
with girls wearing too much perfume and boys too little
deodorant—I bought an almost floral-scented lipstick
to go with a new bottle of Chantilly: musk, bergamot,
lemon, sandalwood accompanying coarse cotton
products wrapped in crinkling plastic for things kept
out of polite conversation… but in class there was the
bitter tang of cigarettes and marijuana on the clothing
of minors; at days’ end were locker rooms filled with
the bitterness of used pointe shoes and unwashed tights
leading into clouds of faux-flower hairspray muddying
the air burnt from hot stage lights, with calls for help
with silken laces in the span of five-minute costume
changes; and then, years later, crisp night air mingling
with acidic tomatoes, garlic, sage, and thyme set beside
an overheated pan with sudden thunder and damp
clothing, gas station fumes, fresh ink on paper, and the
humid air in the backseat of my car… the glamour of
midnight stars in the absence of light, cigarette smoke
plumes, spilled beer, crackling campfire, and petrichor
leading to her peppery shampoo, sulfuric hot spring
steam, dusty shadeless mountain days, the metallic ring
of water on a parched tongue, uncontrollable inaudible
laughter, the sting of sharp rocks on bare hands, the
give of wet paper as it tears, the piercing burn of halfempty bottles of whiskey, briny temperate pine air at
sunset, the lingering traces of sweat and sex on grey
bed sheets….
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American River Review