The Past is in the Air

April 8, 2026

Writer: Rachel Brown

Editor: Aidan Lane

A briny mixture of olive oil and red wine vinegar sprinkled with a generous douse of oregano flakes and a dash of salt and pepper, but with a touch more salt than pepper. 

Scents hold memories.

A whiff of this acidic combination of simplistic pantry essentials, and suddenly, my palms and upper thighs are coated by the mixture of liquid gold seeping through the white wrapping delicately encasing my sub. My hardest struggle of the day is walking through the sand with my flip-flops on. Not my most graceful state, but I manage. I tuck the strands of hair that have fallen out of my loose braid behind my vintage Michigan hat, my patience waning as I eagerly tear open the Jersey Mike's signature wrapping. Bob Marley’s Could You Be Loved swirls through my ear as I take my first bite. I finish my sandwich barely before taking a breath, lean back, and tilt down my hat to cover my eyes. Kiawah Island, South Carolina. 

As I mentally return to the greyness where my interaction with salt is limited to the white, bleach-like stains on my shoes rather than the waviness of my hair, I long for the light slipping through my grasp. I miss the version of myself that stands uncomfortably on the scolding hot sand – someone far from academic pressure, with mental clarity and a moment to simply pause. The smell of oregano does not just remind me of the beach. It resurrects a version of me that only exists there, merging the past into the present in a way that sight or sound cannot quite mimic.

Other scents bring me back somewhere quieter, with greater emotional depth. Bounce dryer sheets, hints of Lysol, remnants of sweat from my dad’s long morning walk, and coffee grounds overpower the cheesy scrambled eggs on the stove. A smell that my shoe box dorm room cannot replicate, one that I have not experienced in far too long. I have grown to appreciate it more since leaving for college. Home. Unlike the ease of mentally transporting to the beach, this scent feels unattainable, made sacred by distance. 

At home, I am my most genuine, carefree self. Rather than being forced into independence, I am cared for and surrounded by those who have seen me evolve. There are no expectations. Sitting by the fireplace, I am filled with warmth and authenticity – no performance required. 

An unheard of, yet blissful tapestry of shaving cream, chlorine from wet bathing suits, a chemical sunscreen breeze, all taken over by some mysterious bathroom waft that enters the space. This happens every 30 minutes, followed by pointing fingers and high-pitched fourth-grade giggles. The final smell may not fall under “blissful.” Camp. 

During this chaotic five-week period, a certain goofiness is brought out. Maybe it is the nine-year-olds I interact with more than people my own age or the lack of academic seriousness, but I fully embrace their curiosity and quick-wittedness while trying to avoid their sass. This scent loosens me, dissolving the rigidity I carry at school and removing the filter that monitors my words. Appearance holds little significance, and embarrassment no longer exists. 

Some memories may fade with time, but scents latch onto them tightly. Rather than simply repainting a scene with fresh bottles of acrylic paint, they allow me to embody the feelings and traits that exist within the bright hues. In the salt of the ocean, the warmth of my home, or the chaos of camp, I find the versions of myself that were never truly gone. They were always just an inhale away.