hannah nicole | 2009 - 2014

You wake up and there is lake on your hair.

It doesn't matter that you pulled moroccan oil through your hair. That you brushed the tangles out, slowly. The floral shampoo makes no difference. Because there's that smell. That unmistakable, unnamable, murky and sweet smell that is better than perfume. That lake smell that settles on your skin, parading around the freckles that multiply each time you look in the mirror.

Your sweatshirt smells like a campfire. If you sniff deeply and bring it close to your face, you can smell s'mores. Maybe it's your imagination. Maybe not.

Your nose is peeling, just a bit.
Your hair, despite your comb, stays curly and knotted.
And there were chiggers in that part of the lake.

(The area with the small stretch of sand half buried under water...you were right. A dog ran across it while you were floating and all you could think of was what a happy thing it was to be on the water. It's cold in the shade, hot in the sun)

The fish were fat and not as timid as you were used to. And the sand, you sunk eight inches in with each step. When you climbed out of the water, there was sand on the back of the boat, on your wrinkled, pruny, lake-y feet. You settle on a blanket until your hair is crusty and your suit damp. You eat pretzels with your licorice and catch cards before they fly away. Yell out and play another game.

And you breathe deep.
And close your eyes.
And are filled with that smell.

That smoky, savory, sweet, murky, musty, fresh, light, green, wet, wonderful, wild smell with no name. That lake scent. That stays in your suitcase, year after year. You get tastes of it once and awhile, a sudden combination, a moment, a memory. And there is that overwhelming and overreaching and undertone of lake. Of sand and wet hair tangled on your skin and freckles on sunburnt faces.

It's early morning and you are in a sweatshirt with the name of your favorite place. It's cold on the dock, clear and cold and wide. It's beautiful and sad, because the memories it belongs to are not your own. But if you close your eyes, just for a minute, you can pretend. It's almost like you're back again. Your lake. Your story.

The smell fades after a few washes.
Your shirts unwrinkle.
Your sweatshirts lose the smoke.
Your jeans aren't damp from the shore.
And winter paints your face pale.

But those moments of breathing,
feeling,
taking it all in -
you bottle those up in jars.

Ball jars, like you would for jam. They are yellow like apricots and a deep red like mashed strawberries and if you're lucky, a purple blue and black as the last bit of sky before dusk. You tuck them away, hide them under your bed. They sit behind books with your name forgotten. They settle. In the winter, when the world is numb and the lake sleeping, the trees dying before coming awake, you pull them out. Your secret stash.

It's dark until late morning and you light a candle before carefully unscrewing the jars, one by one.