LINGER

I believe people can time travel.

Not in the way movies and books make it out to be—with a DeLorean time machine or through a black hole’s event horizon. Rather, it’s bottled in a perfume—the musk of an aftershave, the scent of a freshly washed shirt tucked in a left-behind suitcase, or in a diffused aroma that lingers and follows you around the mall.

How naive, to think only journals and photographs can help us keep a memory alive, when in truth, the moments we cherish and those that bring us comfort, even those we want to forget, are preserved in little glass bottles.

I was never one to favor one thing over the other, but if you ask me what my favorite scent is, I’d tell you it’s the woody musk aftershave of my dad. The one he always wore when he was at his best. I loved how it filled the room whenever he walked in—especially on evenings when he would come home and enter the house through the kitchen door. The scent transports me in flashes of memories—a little me running toward my dad’s arms for a welcome-home embrace. It never failed to bring me comfort and safety.

Until now.

I can no longer bring myself to use the musk—not on myself and not around my family. The aftershave is tucked away deep in my drawer—kept out of sight, as if hiding it could keep grief at bay.

I’d tell you another favorite scent of mine would be the perfume my sister accidentally left behind when she moved away. We were a pair—running errands together, sharing coffees and stories at cafes, and walking miles just to pass the time. I never considered myself lonely, but now, I search for the comfort of having someone beside me when I go out for a walk. When I walk into cafes we used to frequent, I find myself saving a seat for a phantom presence.

I’d tell you it’s Lazy Sunday Morning—someone else’s favorite fragrance. I could tell you how it’s meant to evoke lazy mornings in bed alone or with a lover, but I wouldn’t tell you how much I adored the person who wore it, despite never sharing mornings.

I can even tell you about the scents I avoid—the bamboo diffuser that one would often smell in a mall. The aroma too similar to an ex-boyfriend’s room; to a version of myself I’ve long since outgrown.

While I easily forget faces and places, scents have always been a gateway for me to access these memories. How powerful. A whiff of something could easily bring everything back, undiluted and vivid in color. There are fragrances I keep in rotation—those that come with fond memories. There are bottles that are left untouched and collect dust—too afraid that a drop would dissolve the walls I’ve built to keep myself.

People leave behind echoes of themselves, intentionally or not. They are stored in voicemails, folded between layers of clothing, and in the fragrances they wore like second skin. And whether I keep my bottles of perfume in the back of my drawer or use it everyday will never taint nor erase what it carries with it.

Maybe one day, I’ll take out the aftershave musk and return it on the top of my drawer. Maybe I’ll start wearing it again in rotation to other scents. It’s purpose no longer a tombstone to a memory, but a remembrance in a way that doesn’t hurt anymore.

Victoria Martin is a storyteller and content strategist who believes in the power of words to keep memories alive. She writes to remember, commemorate, and preserve fleeting moments. Aside from reflective essays, she writes short stories rooted in real life and often inspired by the music she loves. Her work spans digital content, branding, and narrative writing that captures the essence of people, places, and emotions.