A few weeks ago I was in a restaurant, waiting impatiently for breakfast, intently focusing upon my book when I smelled something odd. I looked up, caught some odd looks from other patrons, and tried to cover the the title of my book- Saints Misbehaving- and wondering if I should perhaps get a book cover for it. There it is again, I thought as I smelled the familiar scent. I got up to stand by the counter, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
Maybe they had forgotten about my order? Maybe they were having a bad morning? I smiled at the owner as he rushed in. Definitely a bad morning, I thought to myself. I don't want to be a bother but a number of people have come in, ordered, and left since I came in and I was beginning to be flustered. I found the owner, trying to make sense amidst my fluster, but every time I looked at him I had a strange feeling of familiarity that calmed me, making me even more flustered.
Did I know this man? Despite living here for three years I still know few people and those that I do know I know so very well I doubt they will ever forget me. While I waited for my mind to work I placed the smell. I realized that most short, chubby, Mexican men do not resemble my Father, but this man was different. His accent matched my Father (a rarity I assure you). One of his employees called him by my Father's name- Gerardo. I laughed to myself as I remembered asking my fourth grade teacher how to spell his name for my family tree. She blanked and shook her head that she didn't have a clue- a first for her. It made my Father laugh when I went home. And then I realized what made me think of my Father the most.
Every time I smelled him I was taken back to a time when I was very small and very young. I used to wake early to watch my Father prepare for work every morning. Some days he would sit me on the counter so I could watch and some days I would hide around the corner, peeking when I thought he wouldn't see me. I would watch him brush his teeth, carefully pulling out the removable pieces that intrigued me to no end. I would watch him meticulously comb his hair and then laugh as his thick, black waves went back to the way it had been before the comb. I would watch him shave, or in later years, trim his beard into submission. Last of all he would dab on his aftershave. It is this smell more than any other that reminds me of my happy childhood and my love for my Father. I was Daddy's little girl and that defined who I was long after I moved away.
I have been a Texas resident three years now and I still resist the urge to introduce myself as Gerardo's daughter. One of the best and yet the most difficult parts of moving to Texas was not being known by who I was related to, and no one knowing where I came from. I couldn't say, "Oh yes, you must know my people from..." Instead it was just me- just one representative of us all. It was hard to be alone but it was good for me because I never saw myself as an individual before. Moving made me see myself as a piece not a part of the whole. Some days I still wish I was Daddy's little girl and that I had never left- but I could not be little forever, as much as I should like to. And yet, that smell reminded me that it doesn't matter if people don't know who I am or who my people are- what matters is that I remember.
And so I smiled and asked the very nice man where he was from- and then I told him about my Father and where I come from. Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
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