1. When I was five and went to see my grandparents, the elevator to their apartment traversed layers of odor: the smell of cable grease and dust at the ground floor, then the faint tang of mothballs as we rose, pot roast then something like brass polish; at the last floor, wax overlaid with rose petals as the door grumbled open. Now, any one of those smells will send me back in time to when I had to reach up to push an elevator button.
2. This morning’s walk: the wet air held scent, amped it up so even our poor primate noses could tell what was what: the acrid floral piercing made by bat guano, a sudden flash of resinous green as I brush a tangle of rosemary, mossy rot and humus from the soaked piles of brush along the creek.
3. Lightning in sheets half-hidden by virga: petrichor chromed with ozone carried on the western wind.
4. Scents fade, sinking into the skin and pores of memory.